


archaeologist

by dcb_z



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Blood, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Injury, Nightmares, Slow Burn, Spoilers, also taking care of someone whos been injured, also the OC can also be read as a reader self insert if you like, au where drifter survives, he worked so hard just let him live pls, i like that one trope where bandages get changed idk, the driftguard is only heavily implied just a heads up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcb_z/pseuds/dcb_z
Summary: Drifters of this world are the collectors of forgotten knowledge, lost technologies, and broken histories. Some choose to go by a different job title.
Relationships: The Drifter/OC, The Drifter/The Guardian (Hyper Light Drifter)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	1. retrieving

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't decide if i wanted to write this as a drifter/reader fic or stick with drifter/mostly-undescribed OC. sometimes i wish i did the former but i stuck with the latter so if you wanna read it as a drifter/reader then u are welcome to

It didn’t take long after the shaking of the earth stopped before she was there, pack strapped firmly to her back, long brown hair fixed in a compact bun to fit beneath her full-face helmet. The elevator that had taken this town’s blue-skinned wanderer into its depths left a chasm in the center of it. The wanderer hadn’t come back up after the rumbling stopped.

Her diminutive sprite hailed the lift, and after some length of time, the ornate platform rose to the surface. No sooner had it finished its trip up did she send it back down, this time with her in tow.

The depths of the world were eerily familiar, even in the darkness. Her sprite’s flashlight clicked on, and she switched on her own night vision on her helmet. Debris lay scattered everywhere. It was a wonder the whole town didn’t come crashing down with whatever happened down here. Together, sprite and owner combed the ruined facility, searching for anything worthy of study: a few flashes of a camera here, a few samples slipped into individual containers there.

Finally, she was able to place it: the underbelly of the town resembled that of the underground factory she had once found south of Central. The deep purple colors, the hulking towers, the glass canisters. At least, she thought it was fairly similar. She hadn’t been able to explore much of the depths of the south thanks to all the rouge machines down there; as an archaeologist, she didn’t study combat as much as she thought she should.

The pink sprite pipped an alert to her. “Hm? What is it?” It seemed to be gesturing to something over against the wall, something vaguely humanoid in shape. She followed it, lifting her visor slowly in surprise as she made sense of what her sprite’s flashlight was showing her.

A blue-skin matching the description given by the townspeople lay slumped against the wall, face covered in dust, clothes tattered and seeped with blood from his wounds. His grey helmet made its best effort at glinting in the light in spite of the grime that coated it. She crouched before him, pressing two of her fingers to his neck, and relief ran through her as she felt warmth and a pulse in his body. “Heavens… just what did he  _ do _ down here?”

* * *

Dragging his body to the elevator wasn’t too terrible. Once she emerged at the top, she became suddenly aware of the fact that to the unaware, it looked very much like she was dragging a dead body around the town. The realization made her face flush beneath her helmet from self-consciousness.

“You found him?” came the voice of one of the townspeople. “And here we all thought he was dead.”

“That’s a little cold.”

“Maybe.” They looked down at her as she caught her breath, still holding the blue-skin beneath the arms. “Not like he ever tried to fit in here. Suppose that’s to be expected of a drifter, though.”

She looked down at the cargo in her arms. His eyes were still closed and his mask was still saturated in his blood. Flatly, and tired of getting blood on her clothing, she asks, “are you going to keep talking down to him, or would you like to take a minute to help me carry him to the Apothecary?”

Their eyes blinked in surprise. “Uh-- I… sure.”

“Great,” came her sarcasm-tinged response. “You take his upper half. And be gentle--he’s injured.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Together, they lifted the blue-skin in a two-man carry and brought him to the Apothecary.

* * *

Tea slowly cooled itself on the table beside her. Although her hands were busy with mending the wanderer’s clothing, her eyes were more focused on his unconscious form. The Apothecary had quickly stitched up the worst of the blue-skin’s wounds and cleaned up the mess of blood on his body. Leaving her with a bag full of medicines, bandages, and instructions that she prayed she’d remember correctly, the medicine man had sent her on her way (this time, with much less help dragging the body up to her home towards the mountains). It had been about a day now since she’d brought him here and he still hadn’t shown any signs of waking.

Had he lost too much blood? Did he suffer some sort of injury to his head down in the belly of this world? Was there something else wrong with him that had finally caught up with him? Did she waste all her energy hauling him up here on her own?

Her sprite seemed to sense her worry and let out a soft tone, clinking its body against her still untouched mug of tea. “Right. Thanks.” Absently, she took the mug and sipped it slowly, too deep in her thoughts to mind how hot it was.

What exactly had happened in the abyss? What fate had this blue-skin gone down to meet? She knew that most townspeople were seldom kind to these lab-grown humanoids. Did they send him down there? No; even she, with all her studying of this land, had no idea that there was an elevator hidden in that glyph in town. They had all heard the deep hummings beneath the glyph, but like just about everything else about this land, this had been accepted. Except… it hadn’t been humming anymore when she dragged this blue-skin out of the abyss. The thing had gone quiet. Her gaze lifted from her tea and settled on the sleeping wanderer. Whatever he had gone down there to do, whatever caused that place to come crashing down, it had silenced the incessant humming of that  _ thing _ in Central Town.

She hoped that this was a good development.

Her gaze remained fixed on his body. The lean muscle of his body was partially covered by all of the bandages wrapped around his arms and torso. Sipping slowly, she watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Slight-framed but assuredly fit, he struck her as someone built for endurance, well attuned to a life of wandering.

She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her. While he patched this person-- the Apothecary called him a  _ drifter _ \-- up, he told her of the gossip that made its way around the small community of Central. How he was seldom around the town, choosing instead to constantly explore the surrounding lands. How when he was in the town, he was constantly dashing around the place.

Her companion bot nudged her shoulder, reminding her to take a long sip of her tea. Perhaps, if his injuries healed nicely, this blue-skinned drifter would be able to go back to his previous lifestyle.


	2. waking

Exhaustion.

_ I’m done. It’s over. _

His body ached. He couldn’t seem to stop coughing.

_ The Cell is gone. It’s done. _

His breaths rattled along with the quaking of the world around him. Chunks of rock and metal fell around him, caking to the blood on his clothing. He didn’t care. He knew his time was up.

Drifter slumped against a wall, finding himself in front of a campfire. He laid his head back, blinking the dust out of his eyes, and met the gaze of the Jackal.

“This is what you kept me alive for, isn’t it?” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and broken from the illness that he knew was soon to take his life. He could feel a chill settling into his limbs as the world closed around him.

With a barely perceptible bow of its head, the Jackal turned and left him there as his consciousness slipped away.

* * *

A sound. Muffled and distant. Footsteps. Soft pinging.

A light on his face. He wanted to move, but couldn’t. He felt heavy, so heavy, like his limbs were replaced with metal or stone.

The world swam as he heard a voice in front of him. A woman’s voice. He’d never heard it before. He couldn’t understand it. He wanted to open his eyes, but his body refused to answer him.

Hands touched his neck, feeling him. Warmth.

The world fell away from him again, returning him to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Voices. Drifter knew one of them. He couldn’t place it.

“...the worst of them have been stitched up…”

Distant smells. Blood-- his own blood-- and medicine. Gears tried to turn in his brain, but his thoughts felt like mush.

“...every day or so… this ointment…”

Everything kept fading in and out from him. He wanted to focus. He wanted to know where he was. It felt like he was in a dream, only it wasn’t his, it was someone else’s dream, and he couldn’t do anything, he was trapped and at the whim of someone else. He wanted so desperately to move, to open his eyes, but still his body refused him, still all he could do was listen to fragments of conversation.

Drifter felt himself exhale slowly. Awareness was starting to slip from his grasp again. He could do nothing to stop it.

* * *

He was warm. Warm and quiet and still--always so still, always so unmoving. The world was silent this time. No footsteps, no muffled conversations, no hands on him. It was dead.

Was he dead?

He didn’t know what he’d see when he opened his eyes. Would it be the chamber he faced Judgement in? Would it be the cave that crumbled around him after? Or, perhaps, would he be lying in the waters he saw once in his visions, red with blood, now turned crystal clear?

He only saw darkness.

_ This must be death _ , he thought, barely able to keep himself awake. He let his heavy eyelids close.

He had imagined that death would have been a lot colder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was a lil shorter oops


	3. mending

She was kneeling beside the bed, folding the week’s laundry, when she heard it. A soft groan, a shifting beneath the sheets. He was finally awake.

Black eyes met hers as she looked up at him. Her mind froze-- she hadn’t actually planned out what she was going to say to this man once he finally woke up. “Uh… hi. It’s good to see you’re finally awake.”

Silence. He blinked.

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment and she looked down at the pair of socks she was nervously fidgeting with. “...er, I go by Archaeon. I found you down below the town after that big earthquake happened. The people in the town said you’d gone down there and hadn’t come back up. So I brought you up, and uh… took you to the Apothecary to get treated, and then… here.”

Another blink. His gaze was somehow unsettling. Maybe it was the dark circles below his eyes, or the thin face, or the still-pale hue of his skin (he was, at least, looking a little more alive than he did when he was first brought here).

“...what’s your name?”

Still nothing.

“Can you understand me?”

A nod.

“Oh.” Archaeon laid the pair of socks on the floor and then occupied her hands with a shirt. “You just don’t speak, then?”

He nodded again. Wincing, he brought himself to a sitting position and peered down at what she was doing.

Archaeon thought to herself for a moment. She’d taken it upon herself to learn a few old languages while exploring this land as part of her archaeology work. She knew that drifters, too, were known for collecting a great deal of knowledge in their travels. The two of them were alike in that respect. She was just one who preferred to remain grounded in one place. Laying the shirt she’d just finished folding upon the ground, Archaeon looked up at her guest.  _ “Do you sign?” _ she asked, speaking the words with the movement of her hands.

The dark eyes widened in surprise and their owner scooted a little closer to the edge of the bed.  _ “I do,” _ he signed in return. A pause, then he seemed to remember something, signing,  _ “I go by Drifter.” _

A smile touched Archaeon’s lips. “I thought that was a profession?”

_ “I have no other name.” _

“Didn’t choose another one for yourself?”

Drifter shook his head.  _ “Why bother?” _ He took a moment to look over his body, inspecting the bandages that were so numerous that they might as well count as clothing at this point. Then his attention returned to Archaeon, and she soon realized that the look in his eyes when he first woke up was one of confusion.  _ “Why am I alive?” _

She didn’t know how to respond to that. “Uh… you were pretty wounded when I found you, but it was nothing that the doctor couldn’t fix--”

He shook his head and practically cut her off with another hurriedly signed statement.  _ “No. My illness. It’s not something medicine could fix. I--”  _ He started to point at himself, a jabbing gesture into his chest, then held his face in his hands. Archaeon wasn’t sure if she should speak or not, so she played it safe, remaining quiet as Drifter collected himself.  _ “I saw myself die,”  _ he finally signed. It was lethargic, defeated, as if he were wholly convinced it were true and was disappointed to discover the opposite.

“It… must’ve been a dream…? You were unconscious for a while…” Truth be told, Archaeon wasn’t entirely sure what Drifter was trying to tell her. But she knew from the handful of drifters she’d crossed paths with that his bunch were the secretive type (another difference between their professions, she supposed). 

Drifter simply shook his head again.  _ “My clothes?” _

“Oh. I actually need to change your bandages now that you’re actually upright.” She swore she saw him flinch at the statement.

_ “I’ll do it,”  _ he pointedly signed.

“Uh, well, there’s a lot of bandaging to do, and--”

_ “I’ll do it,”  _ he repeated, motions sharp for emphasis.  _ “Where’s my sprite?” _

It wouldn’t be worth arguing over this, Archaeon knew. Drifters were known for being the independent sorts. “I’ll bring it over and hand you the bandages, then.” She rose from where she was kneeling and fetched a roll of bandages and ointment from a drawer in the washroom, then brought them along with Drifter’s companion bot.

“Here,” she said, laying them beside him. “The Apothecary says that ointment needs to be applied every time the bandages are changed. Not a lot of it, just enough to cover the wound. He said it’ll help it heal and prevent infection and whatnot.”

Drifter listened as he switched on his sprite. It chittered softly as it awoke and rose in front of him. The bot seemed to stare at him for a moment before suggesting he seek medical attention. Drifter’s eyes closed and he exhaled softly in what Archaeon thought might’ve been amusement.

She knelt again to finish folding her laundry and let Drifter work with his sprite to replace his bandages. Despite her best efforts to be on good behavior, Archaeon frequently found herself stealing glances up at her guest. His body was scarred, and she knew that the freshly healing wounds would only scar him further. But as his lean muscles were revealed with every bandage he took off, Archaeon realized that this drifter had an undeniable attractiveness.

Feeling her cheeks grow hot, Archaeon pulled her attention back to her nearly-finished laundry pile. She couldn’t let herself think like that about some man she found underground and dragged home with her.  _ Especially _ not about a drifter. They told little, spoke little, and never settled down anywhere. She knew these things. And yet--

Her eyes lifted to Drifter, and she found them meeting his. All of his bandages were off at this point, leaving him covered only by his mask and underwear. The scars and wounds did nothing to detract from his looks. It was a dangerous thought.

Sheepishly, Archaeon grabbed one of the piles of folded clothes and quickly went to tuck them into the dresser where they belonged. Behind her, Drifter set to work replacing his bandages, letting the little arm of his companion bot hold the roll of cloth for him.

“Uh, you’re probably hungry, aren’t you?” Archaeon looked over her shoulder, finding Drifter in the middle of tying off a bandage with his teeth. He finished pulling it tight and nodded. “I’ll fix something up, then.” She started to walk out, then paused in the doorway. “Uh-- you should probably stay in bed for now. Just to be safe.”

Drifter looked up from what he was doing to stare at her for a few moments. She couldn’t read what his expression was-- hopefully it was acquiescence. Whatever it was, Archaeon wasn’t going to bother convincing him.


	4. supper

No sooner did Archaeon leave did Drifter haul himself out of bed. His injuries, especially the large wound in his abdomen, still hurt terribly, which made walking all the more difficult. But the discomfort of being in just his underwear and a bunch of bandages was more than enough to motivate him to grab at least his shirt and pants and get himself dressed. He was grateful, of course, that Archaeon had found him and bandaged him up like she did. But knowing that she had to undress him to do so… Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if she’d had to go as far as to strip him  _ completely _ . He shuddered at the thought and pulled on his helmet as if the comfortable, familiar metal would shield him from such things.

Drifter was surprised to find his clothing in the best condition it had been in recent memory. All of the holes and tears he remembered-- especially those after his fight with Judgement-- had been skillfully mended. What’s more, the fabric was… soft. He ran his bare fingers over one of his sleeves as he limped back to the bed. Yes, Archaeon must have washed these clothes, he thought to himself. It was something he seldom did himself, and even when he did, he always settled for just swishing his clothes around in some water and then drying them out.

He glanced at the doorway once he sat back down on the bed. Archaeon wasn’t in it, and judging by the not too far-off sounds of pans, she was busy wherever the kitchen was. Good. Tentatively, he gave his shirt a little sniff. Closing his eyes, he tried to place the scent. It was something like the forest after a storm, or a cliffside clearing looking over a stormy sea. He wondered how his host managed to get that fragrance into his clothes. Maybe he’d ask her sometime.

* * *

Dinner was some sort of meat with vegetables and a piece of bread. Drifter scooted a little closer to the low table Archaeon had brought up to the bedside for him. She sat across from him currently, cutting all of her meat into pieces with her knife and fork before eating them.

Drifter didn’t bother. He pulled his mask down and, after skewering the meat on his fork, used his sharp teeth to rip a mouthful of the meat off. He didn’t miss the way that Archaeon’s eyes widened slightly at his less-than-mannerful approach to eating. But if it truly bothered her, she didn’t bother to say anything. It was probably for the better-- Drifter didn’t really care. 

Their meal passed in silence. Archaeon was a good cook, but then again Drifter didn’t exactly have much to compare it to. The majority of his meals were unseasoned meats cooked over a campfire or foraged foods. The only exception had been the occasional breakfast or dinner cooked by Guardian, but… that privilege didn’t last for very long. He felt a little sick at the memory of Guardian dying before him, at the thought that if he’d been faster with getting around to fighting Judgement that maybe they’d still be here, but he forced it away with the last mouthful of his food.

_ “Thank you,”  _ he signed, gently sliding his empty plate towards Archaeon.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, stacking it atop her own. She was quiet for a few moments, not moving to put the plates away.. “Uh, maybe a weird question. It’s fine if you don’t want to answer. But why don’t you speak? Are you… mute or something?”

He wanted to sigh, but he knew this question was bound to come up.  _ “No. I had a disease for a long time before you found me.”  _ Drifter closed his eyes for a moment as the memories resurfaced, still fresh in his mind.  _ “I coughed a lot. All of the time. I coughed up blood. I was…”  _ His signs slowed as he tried to remember the ones for his words.  _ “Falling apart. Almost dead.” _

“It damaged your throat, didn’t it?”

He nodded.  _ “Speaking became too painful for me.” _

Archaeon seemed to think on this. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to pity him for what he told her. “I could make you a tea, if you’d like. Honey and warmth to help soothe your throat, and a spice the Apothecary gave me to help with inflammation.” A sheepish look came across her face. “I, uh… get seasonal allergies and sore throats a lot…”

Drifter stared at her, then gave a single nod in reply.

“Okay. I’ll be back in a bit.”

* * *

Archaeon was right: the honey and the warmth did feel pretty good on his throat. The medicinal spice imparted a strange flavor to the tea, but he trusted that the Apothecary knew what he was talking about when he said it’d help with a sore throat. Drifter knew, however, that this was more than just a sore throat from a cold. There was more than likely lasting damage to his vocal cords that couldn’t be repaired with any kind medicine. He supposed it would be a lasting reminder of his illness.

He’d take it. It was better than being dead. It was better than being permanently crippled. At the end of the day, he’d still be able to go back to his old life.

Drifter paused mid-sip at the thought (gently, his companion bot nudged itself against the mug to get him to finish). His “old life” was defined by a constant search for a cure, by sleeping on the ground and in caves and in the middle of a storm, by fighting tooth and claw nearly every day just to stay alive. It was a life with no place to call home, with no friends or people to rely on. A lonely, turbulent existence.

If he was truly cured now, did he want to go back to that life?

He stared down into his half-empty mug, watching his own distorted, faint reflection. Of course he’d go back to it. There wasn’t really anywhere for him to stay here in Central, a place that was still prejudiced against his species over a war long since fought. Sure, there was the apartment he’d shared with Guardian, but… that wasn’t exactly a place he was keen on visiting. And besides, now that he’d found his cure, he could focus on unearthing the buried histories and technologies of this world.

Archaeon had left him to the bedroom to retire with his tea, and he took this chance to get up and walk about. The area around the window on the side wall was lined with shelves and he was curious to take a look at what they held. On them, he found countless books, several titled in languages he didn’t understand. But alongside the books were stones, artifacts, dusty old bottles, and framed photos. Some of them were places he knew: the snow-covered titan up north, the sunken boats of the east, the crystals and dilapidated buildings out west. Others showed things he’d never seen before: a glistening building reflecting a setting sun, a boat larger and far grander than the rowboats he’d seen, a statue of a winged woman. 

His host must travel often, he concluded. The thought struck him as odd. Some of these pictures didn’t seem to come from anywhere in this land, and yet Archaeon seemed fairly well settled in from what little he’d seen of her home so far. Did she leave her house unoccupied for months while she travelled? Did she move here from elsewhere?

There was a twinge of pain in Drifter’s abdomen, reminding him that he was supposed to be on strict bedrest. Slowly, he made his way back to the bed and slipped his helmet off. His tea was growing a bit cold, and he knocked it back before setting both the empty mug and his helmet on the bedside table. 

Admittedly, bedrest sounded quite nice right now, and Drifter tried to stifle a yawn. Gingerly he slipped under the blankets and curled up, a hand brushing over his abdominal wound. It was tender to the touch, but it didn’t stop him from keeping his hand on it, staring into space for several long moments as his mind flashed back to the fight that very nearly killed him.

He snapped himself out of it and reached over to turn off the lamp, plunging himself into a darkness that was accompanied only by the distant starlight outside the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuuuuhhhhhhh sorry i got bigtime sidetracked with a bunch of other hld fic ideas i had OOPS. also not much happens in this chapter sry. also also i didnt proofread this at all SORRY


	5. treatment

The Drifter had been spending most of his time resting in Archaeon’s room. He slept a great deal and barely took two meals a day. Really, the only thing she had needed to worry about so far was making sure to bring him plenty of herbal tea and fresh gauze for his bandages. He’d helped himself to her collection of books to entertain himself and seemed to readily absorb himself in the histories detailed by them. All things considered, he was an exceedingly low maintenance guest for someone who was injured as badly as him. 

Archaeon stopped at the door to her bedroom and knocked. “Drifter?” They had a system in place to work with how Drifter didn’t speak. If he was okay with her coming in, he’d knock once on the nightstand by the bed; if not, two knocks.

There were no knocks in response. “Drifter…?” She called again, listening closely. Still nothing, so she supposed he must be sleeping again. Quietly, she opened up the door and peeked in.

She found him sitting up in the bed, a book in his lap, his eyes wide and staring at nothing in particular. Archaeon hurried to his side, set on the nightstand the mug of tea she’d been bringing him. Drifter looked like he was in shock; his eyes were totally glazed over and his face was pale. Archaeon glanced at what he was reading and found that he’d pulled down one of her books of research on the titan war.  _ Of course.  _ She didn’t know Drifter’s history, but she could only assume that he had some kind of connection to that old struggle, and these notes must have triggered some traumatic memory of his.

Gently, she pulled the book from his hands and closed it. “Drifter,” Archaeon called again, voice soft. “Can you hear me?” Without thinking, her hands went to his and she squeezed them, hoping to snap him out of the episode.

Finally he blinked and his black eyes seemed to come into focus. Drifter looked first at their hands, then to Archaeon’s face, and she felt his hands tense ever so slightly as he tried to still their fearful trembling. “I’m fine,” he spoke, “I’m fine.”

It was the first time she’d heard him speak. His voice was unsteady, rough, but not unpleasant. She smiled selfishly at getting to hear him and hoped that he assumed that it was merely a smile of relief. “Okay.” Archaeon withdrew her hands from his. “We need to change your bandages.”

Drifter flexed his hands a few times. He seemed to hesitate for a few moments, as if words hung on the tip of his tongue.  _ “Could you…?”  _ His signing trailed off uncertainly. Slowly, he brought his gaze up to meet hers again.  _ “...can you change them?” _

“Of course.” Archaeon got up to fetch the bandages, grateful that the small trip would give her a chance to cool the blush that warmed her skin at the chance to lay her hands on him. A smile that she couldn’t suppress spread across her face as she collected the bandages from their drawer.  _ Dammit, Archaeon. Get it together. He’s simply too shaken to do a good job of replacing the bandages, that’s all. _

She exhaled slowly, composing herself, then returned to Drifter’s side. He had already pulled his shirt off for her, and Archaeon tried now to focus too keenly on his lean muscles. “I’ll try to be quick,” she assured him, knowing he probably wasn’t thrilled at the idea of letting someone else touch him.

Her theory was confirmed when Drifter flinched at the feeling of Archaeon touching his arm to undo the bandages there. “Sorry. I know it’s not comfortable for you,” she said apologetically as she discarded the bandages. Drifter simply huffed and stared blankly ahead, his claws fidgeting with his shirt while she worked.

“Your arms look a lot better,” Archaeon reported after inspecting them both. “Don’t think we need to bandage them anymore. You’ll have some nasty scars, but…” Her eyes wandered over his shirtless body. “I don’t think it’ll make much of a difference on you.”

His hands clenched against the fabric at the remark and he shot a cold glare at Archaeon. She felt the blood drain from her face at the look. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. That was, uh…” Archaeon looked away, feeling uncomfortable under his stare. “Really stupid of me to say. I’m sorry.”

Drifter sighed and relaxed his grip on the shirt. Archaeon hoped he’d say something like “it’s fine” or “don’t worry about it,” but no assurance came from either his lips or his hands. Even something like a “just keep your mouth shut” would have given her at least  _ some  _ indication of what he was feeling.

“I think we can finally see how that wound on your abdomen is doing,” Archaeon said, trying awkwardly to change the subject. “Lift your arms for me?”

Somewhat reluctantly, Drifter raised his arms, letting her undo the bandages around his torso. Inwardly, Archaeon cursed her body for blushing again at the sight of his abs. “It’s healing well,” she said as professionally as she could manage. Impulsively she traced a finger over the sutures that were already absorbing into Drifter’s skin along with the medgel the Apothecary had coated the deep wound with. She heard her guest inhale sharply through his teeth and felt his body shift as he looked down at her.

“Bandages,” he reminded her aloud.

“...right,” Archaeon replied, glancing up at him. The cold look in his eyes was gone, and he wasn’t recoiling from her touch, she noticed. Even so, she didn’t want to overstay her welcome. She grabbed the roll of gauze and bandages she’d brought over and, after delicately applying a fresh layer of ointment to Drifter’s wound, wrapped it with the bandages.

“How’s that feel? It’s not too tight, is it?” she asked.

_ “It’s fine,”  _ he signed.

“Good.” Archaeon collected the unused materials and stood. “I, uh… I brought you more tea, by the way. For your throat.”

Drifter glanced at the cup, then up at her. It was difficult to read his expression in the moments of silence that passed between them.  _ “Thank you,”  _ he finally signed. There was a peculiar delicateness to the motions that Archaeon couldn’t quite place. Was it hesitation to express gratitude to someone he allowed to help them? Was it an implied apology or assurance after earlier?

...or was it something else? Archaeon shoved the thought from her mind. She’d only known this man for a handful of days. It couldn’t mean  _ that. _ “It’s nothing,” she said, smiling. “I’m happy to help.”

He gave a brief nod before reaching for the mug of tea. With his focus on her broken, she left to put the bandages back in their home in the washroom. “Let me know if you need anything else,” Archaeon said, glancing over her shoulder once she was in the doorway of the bedroom. Another nod of acknowledgement from the drifter. 

Once the door was shut, Archaeon held her face in her hands as she walked to the couch and slumped down on it.  _ You barely know him. You’ll probably never know him. He’ll probably leave as soon as he’s well enough to hold a sword and gun. What are you doing? Why are you blushing like an idiot over him? _ She sighed heavily, the sound oddly distorted by her palms.  _ Get it together. Get it together. Get it together. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got to That Part of the south today and needed to cope so here's another chapter of fluff i guess. anyways it's like 11:30pm and i should really be SLEEPING whoops (that means this isn't proofread so if u see any Dumb Mistakes lmk)


	6. internal struggle

Her hands had been soft against his skin. Pleasant, almost, if it weren’t for his distaste for being touched by unfamiliar people. For people in general, really. The touch was enough to snap him out of his episode though, so Drifter couldn’t bring himself to be upset at Archaeon over her lingering touches on his body.

Even so, would he have minded them all that much?

Of course, he reminds himself. Any touch is bothersome, he tells himself. Drifters don’t get close to people. He let himself get close to Guardian, let himself cozy up to the first person who gave a damn about him, let himself warm up to the touches of their hands and the feeling of their weight pressing against him at night, to waking up half-undressed beside them. The memory is warm, but he shivers nonetheless. He knows how it ends.

Any soft, lingering touch of hands that care about his well being is  _ dangerous.  
_

He pulls his shirt back on and gets up. He needed a distraction, and right now the only one he had was reading. Drifter picks up the book about the old war he’d been reading and puts it back on the shelf where it belongs, not even casting a glance at its cover. He didn’t need to be reminded of what it was about, of what memories it dredged up within him. His finger trails over the row of spines before finally settling on one labelled in a language he can read.

This will do, he thinks.

* * *

Reading only did so much to distract him. Dinner with Archaeon helped a little, though. She still insisted on eating in the bedroom with him, pulling up an ornate tea table to the bedside and kneeling on a cushion opposite Drifter to eat with him. And they still ate in silence, just like all the days before. He supposes that she’s just as reserved of a person as he is, but right now, he finds himself craving some sort of conversation.

_ “What exactly do you do?” _ Drifter asks out of the blue whilst chewing on a mouthful of food. Dinner tonight was some sort of spiced, creamy sauce over rice with meat that Drifter didn’t care to figure out. The spice burns his still-raw throat a bit, but the flavor is too good for him to be picky over the minor discomfort.

Archaeon seems surprised to see him strike up a conversation with her. Her mouth is also full, so she signs a response:  _ “Archaeology.” _

He pauses and realizes he isn’t familiar with the term. Archaeon seems to pick up on this and continues, aloud this time. “I study the history of the area and I make records of what I find. Like… through pictures, or essays or journals. Sometimes I take a few relics to preserve them.” She gestures to the items on the shelves by the window. “It’s been a little dangerous to go out and do my work lately though, so I took up sewing and tailoring not too long ago. And working with the locals to gather oral histories.”

Drifter chews another bite of food as he listens.  _ “So you’re a drifter.” _

“Not really. Sorry if I’ve drawn a wrong conclusion here, but-- drifters are generally pretty… secretive? And they never stay in one place for long. But I’ve lived in this house for years and I don’t have any qualms about… showing my face or sharing my work with the public.” Archaeon anxiously runs her fingers through her hair as she speaks before brushing the strands back behind her ear. “And I don’t really fight.”

_ “You should learn.” _

“Probably.”

_ “Especially if you’re going to do stupid things like running headfirst into the Abyss when you don’t know what you’re going to find.” _ The memories of his fight with Judgement are all-too-fresh in his mind, and even the mention of that wretched place is enough to make his grip tighten on his fork.

Archaeon sighs and lays her fork down on her empty plate. “Maybe it was dumb of me to go in there. But I needed to see what was there for my research. And I found you there, didn’t I? I dragged you out and got you help and kept you from dying.”

_ “I didn’t ask you to,”  _ he signs coldly.

“No, you didn’t. But what’s it matter? Did I need permission or something from you to keep you from dying?”

_ “I’m not someone that needs to be saved! I’m not some lost, injured animal that needs to be pitied and rescued and patched up--”  _ His hands sign quickly, his anger making it difficult for him to care about properly rendering the words, and he only stops a few moments after Archaeon cuts him off.

I just--” Archaeon pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out an exasperated sigh. “What’s so wrong about me trying to help someone in need? Why are you even hostile over this?”

Drifter realizes that he is, in fact, bristling. And Archaeon’s words make him realize the sharp contrast between them: her, with her apparently selfless, generous nature (like Guardian, he thinks), and himself, with his selfish, opportunistic motivations. All of his fighting and struggling and risking of his life was always for himself. And now he’s found someone who’s the complete opposite of that, and it’s so  _ foreign _ to him that he feels himself recoiling at it involuntarily. His heart is still racing from lashing out at her, and he takes several breaths to try to calm himself down. 

He owes her an apology, he realizes, as he glances at her face. But apologizing over being a rude dickhead is something else that’s almost painful in its unfamiliarity. He tries it anyway.  _ “Sorry,”  _ Drifter signs simply. He quickly feels as though it isn’t enough. A small sigh escapes him as he scrambles to try to find the right words. Even so, several strained moments of silence pass between them as his hands sit frozen at his chest, one gripping his green pendant.  _ “...I… should be… thanking you,”  _ he manages slowly, avoiding eye contact with his host. He feels his face grow hot with embarrassment and he curses his body for betraying him.  _ “...for risking yourself just to… help me.” _

His eyes flicker between nothing in particular and Archaeon’s face. Her features soften as she closes her eyes, exhaling softly as she forces her shoulders to relax. “You’re welcome, Drifter.” Another moment and she manages to calm the trembling of her hands. (She’s a sensitive person, Drifter realizes, and it makes him feel a little worse for his outburst.) “And… I may not have known you before you went down into the Abyss, but I’m glad you didn’t die down there.”

Drifter thinks of his vision he had after killing the Immortal Cell. Of the blue waters and cloudless sky as far as the eye could see. Of the relief he felt when he could breathe deeply once again, only to feel the warmth spreading across his stomach as he realized his wounds. The horror as he realized how deep and fatal that gash was, leaving him to collapse into the shallow waters, realizing the futility of it all: a life spent struggling and searching for a cure, only to die as soon as he found it.

He hadn’t realized that his eyes had glazed over, leaving him clueless to the world around him, until he felt those soft, lingering hands sign intimately into his:  _ “Drifter, are you alright?” _ It catches him off guard and snaps him completely out of his trance.

_ “I’m fine. I’m fine,”  _ he signs into Archaeon’s hands.  _ “I’m glad I lived too.” _

* * *

He does not sleep easy that night. Drifter tosses and turns, too many memories flowing through his brain, too many conflicted feelings tearing at his heart. There’s a gentle rain outside; normally the sound of it would soothe him, but now it only makes him itch to get out of this room, to feel fresh air on his skin. He’s been cooped up for too long.

At the first trace of light in the overcast sky, he stalks out of his room and, for the first time, sees the living room. The far wall is covered in more shelves. On the large couch lies Archaeon, peacefully asleep and bundled under blankets. She looks so… peaceful like that, he thinks, with her hair all mussy and her arms clutching a pillow for company. It’s almost cute.

No, it’s not, he reminds himself, forcing the thought out of his mind. Fresh air. He needs fresh air.

As quietly as he can, he unlocks the front door and slips out, careful to let it close gently behind him. There’s an overhang here on the cabin which provides Drifter plenty of shelter from the rain (not that he’s the type who would particularly care either way). He takes a seat on one of the boxes on the porch and leans back, tired eyes watching the rain.

Here he finds more clarity in his thoughts. Drifter feels at the forefront of his mind an urge to pull on his boots and cloaks, to holster his gun and grab his sword, and to  _ leave. _ To go back to wandering this world and getting himself into trouble and living with the thrill of not knowing what each day will bring. The… uncertainty.

Why? He’s been cured now and survived his fight with Judgement. His searching is over now. He’s earned rest, hasn’t he?

But he’s a  _ drifter. _ Wandering is what’s in his blood, is what he knows, is what he’s  _ always _ known. Even if he’s no longer searching for a cure, there’s lost knowledge for him to dig up and collect within himself. Histories to uncover and memorize.

Histories and technology and knowledge to find. He remembers what Archaeon told him over dinner. This is what she does as an occupation, he tells himself. She wanders, but with a purpose, and always with a place to call home. Would that be such a bad life for him to live?

_ Home.  _ Home is what he called his apartment with Guardian. He’d liked that, actually. He’d liked looking forward to seeing them there, to eating with them, to sleeping with them. 

But home meant getting close to someone again. Would mean getting close to Archaeon. It involved opening up, trusting someone other than just himself, being vulnerable, being… selfless.

He’d done it once with Guardian and it only ended in pain. He didn’t want to go through it again.

No, he realized at length. He just wasn’t  _ sure _ if he wanted to go through it again.


	7. opening

The pitter-patter of the rain is a comfortable way for her to wake. The sunrise on the cloudy sky paints the living room in a gentle monochrome. Her bleary eyes open for a moment, then close slowly as the comfiness of the couch tries to pull her back into sleep. But although her eyes agree to close themselves, she doesn’t fall asleep quite yet.

Her mind thinks back to last night. The argument with her guest is all but gone from her mind in favor of something else-- something that she wonders whether or not is on Drifter’s mind, too. In the sign language the two share, signing at a distance is the method used for friends, acquaintances, and strangers. But there’s a second form of it that involves hand-to-hand contact. It’s a little more limited in vocabulary, but the form is reserved for close intimate partners and occasionally family. And without even really thinking, she’d used the intimate form with Drifter.

Archaeon’s face burns beneath the blankets she’s snuggled in. If her odd behavior hasn’t given it away already, _that_ surely might have. And he _definitely_ knows the hand language, because it snapped him out of his thousand-yard-stare state and he _replied_ to her in it. Heavens above.

She throws the blankets off of herself and gets up, her anxiety proving to be too much to bear just lying down. It’s then that she notices the door to her bedroom slightly ajar. Clicking on the living room lights, she takes a peek into the bedroom; in the dim morning light, she can see that Drifter is most definitely not in bed anymore. She turns on the bedroom light and finds that although his cloaks are gone, his gear is still on the dresser, exactly where it’s been since she first brought him here.

So he hasn’t left, she concludes, and must still be somewhere close. The washroom door is shut, so he’s not there. Archaeon checks the kitchen and finds it empty as well. Her eyes go to the front door and find that the lock is undone. There, then; he’s outside.

Archaeon opens the door and she finds Drifter on a wooden storage crate, leaning back against the wall of her house. His pitch black eyes are open, but he doesn’t seem to be focused on anything in particular. At a loss as to what to say (she probably should have planned something out, she realizes), Archaeon simply stands on the porch in silence with him, staring out at the rain.

“You’re up early,” she hears him hoarsely observe.

“Am I?” She’s surprised that he’s been paying that close attention to her schedule, especially since he’s only now left the bedroom.

“You don’t wake up until much later than me.”

“And why do you wake up so early?”

“Habit,” he replies, a bit unconvincingly. Half of it might be true, but Archaeon finds she doesn’t have to wait long for the real answer. “Have a hard time sleeping.”

“Restless?”

He doesn’t answer, and Archaeon guesses that there’s a factor to it that he doesn’t want to reveal. That’s alright. She won’t pry.

A few minutes of comfortable silence pass between them, filled by the growing downpour and distant thunder. Archaeon is the one to break it. “How do your injuries feel?” She looks down at him to let him sign if he chooses to.

Drifter starts to respond, but his voice breaks painfully, and he quickly picks back up with signing. _“A lot better. Can walk around mostly painlessly. A little weak yet.”_

“I suppose I can take you off bed rest,” she smiles, and Drifter nods in agreement. “Maybe going on some walks with me would do you some good?” Archaeon offers.

He looks up at her as if to study her intent. Archaeon does her best to keep her face neutral, not wanting to reveal how much she’d enjoy taking a stroll with him. Whatever he might have been looking for, he seems to have found it, because he replies with another nod.

They return to watching the approaching storm together in silence until the morning chill starts to get to her. She’s still in just a sleeveless shirt and sleep pants. Archaeon rubs her arms with her hands, but quickly finds it’s not enough to ward off the chill. “I’m gonna go get started on breakfast,” she excuses herself. “Come in whenever you feel like. I’ll put some tea on for you.”

“Thanks,” he replies softly as she heads inside.

* * *

Drifter doesn’t come in until the wind forces him to, and Archaeon’s quick glance up from pouring herself a cup of tea reveals to her that the hem of his cloak was already soaked in the time it took him to retreat. He seems frozen in the doorway, and it takes Archaeon a few moments to realize that he must feel woefully out of place here. She wonders if he had doubts as to whether or not he should even come back inside. “You look cold.” He doesn’t answer, so she briefly holds up the second, empty mug she’d grabbed. “Tea?”

This seems to provide the encouragement he needs. Drifter crosses to the table and takes a seat, accepting the steaming mug that Archaeon gently pushes towards him. “Are you going to keep those soaked cloaks on?” The blank stare he gives her as he wraps his claws around the mug is all she needs to understand that the answer to that question is a ‘no.’

“Well… I’m almost done with breakfast here,” Archaeon says, turning back to face the stovetop. The last, thick pancake looks ready to flip, so she carefully slides a spatula beneath it and turns it over. It sizzles satisfactorily as it reveals its golden-brown, perfectly cooked side.

Drifter gives a small cough behind her and she hears him set his mug suddenly on the table. She turns and sees one of his hands clutching the pendant around his neck. He’s digging his claws into the wooden table with his other hand as another cough rises from his throat. He quickly covers his mouth and glances up at her, before looking down at the table just as quickly.

“...you alright?”

He hesitates, then nods slowly after coughing again. _“Choked on it,”_ Drifter signs sheepishly. He keeps his mouth covered with a bundle of his cloaks as Archaeon slides a plate with a broad pancake on it to him.

“You look a little… distressed for someone who only choked on some tea,” Archaeon remarks as she sits across from him with her own breakfast.

Drifter stares down at his plate, clearing his throat once more. She can’t even begin to read his expression with his face tilted down, but he certainly seems a little spaced out over something. At length, he sits up a little straighter and begins to sign. _“I used to be… afflicted,”_ he tells her, treating the final word as if it’s something filthy, as if it’s something that he can scarcely bring himself to say. _“For years. Until I… fought it.”_

“It?”

_“Judgement.”_

She stares at him blankly. “...’judgement’?” In all of her reading and exploring of this place, she’d never heard of anything or anyone by that name.

_“In the Abyss. The Cell.”_

Now that’s familiar. Yes, she remembers reading about an Immortal Cell-- an _Abhorrent_ Cell deep below the world. She’d read about it in the gallery of stone tablets a short hike from her home. “You… fought it?”

He nods slowly, bringing his eyes up to meet hers. He looks… she doesn’t know how to place it. She doesn’t want to say ‘broken,’ or ‘pitiful.’ She never knew him before whatever he went through, never knew him before she found him covered in blood and dust and barely breathing beneath the town. But he looks… _changed._ Horrified, she supposes; traumatized by whatever he went through to get to the Cell and survive whatever that encounter entailed.

She doesn’t have the slightest clue as to how to respond. Archaeon almost considers not responding altogether, except that the silence hanging in the air would have clawed into her skin and her neck. “The earthquakes. Those were you?”

 _“After I broke the Cell, the place started caving in around me.”_ He pauses. _“I guess it affected everything above ground too.”_ Drifter starts to grab his fork to cut into the pancake, then abruptly stops, looking across to her. _“Wait-- you went down into the abyss in the middle of the earthquakes, didn’t you?”_

Archaeon’s face reddens as she remembers Drifter’s fierce scolding of her the night before. “I-- yeah. I did. I had no idea that that elevator in town worked, and so I couldn’t help but take a look at what was down there.”

He stares, then only sighs. _“You make a lot of bad choices.”_

She can’t help but laugh at the comment. “I guess I do,” Archaeon smiles to him. And when he pulls his mask down to take a bite of his food, she swears she can see the faintest of smiles touching his pale lips.

The conversation trails off naturally as the two of them eat. Archaeon had always tried her best to be accepting of other peoples’ mannerisms, but she’s silently grateful that Drifter seemed to have picked up on proper utensil usage from her. 

In the past several days he’s been here, he’s already changed so much around her. He started off not speaking to her altogether, to talking but not opening up about his past, to finally cracking the door open just a little with the occasional fleeting display of softness. And now, as she watches him lay his fork down to start a conversation with her, Archaeon realizes that he’s comfortable enough to talk to her of his own accord.

 _“What is this?”_ he asks, gesturing to what’s on his plate.

“It’s a pancake, except… thicker and bigger than how most people make them. My dad taught it to me before I left home.” 

Drifter nods, cutting off another piece with his fork to eat. “It’s sweet,” he says, aloud this time.

“The syrup I liked when I was a kid isn’t made here, so I just add more sugar instead. And then I like to sprinkle more on top.” Archaeon sips the last bit of her tea. “Do you like it?”

He chews slowly as if needing to develop an opinion of it from that single bite. Swallowing, he nods, and wastes no time going after the rest of the pancake. Archaeon smiles and lays her chin on her hand, turning her head a little to stare out of the window at the rain. She’s hardly watching the storm, though; no, her mind is far more focused on the image of Drifter’s barely-perceptible smile. Just the memory of it is enough to warm her cheeks, and she tilts her head down and to the side, running her fingers through her hair as if it’ll hide her blush from her guest.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, and Archaeon certainly doesn’t want to look up to check right now. She just closes her eyes for a few moments, clearing her head until she hears Drifter lay his utensils down again. “Thanks,” she hears him say.

She looks up, pulling her fingers out of her hair. “Of course,” Archaeon smiles. “I’ll clean up.”

Drifter nods and stands up to get out of the way. He moves to the window as she works, peering out of it. “We won’t be going on a walk today,” he observes quietly. 

“No, I suppose we won’t.”

* * *

The following day chooses to grace them with pleasant weather, and the pair find themselves going on a walk in the area around Archaeon’s home. She’s used to a solitary life in this region, but Archaeon has to admit that even though it’s the norm for her, it’s still _lonely._ Having Drifter here, despite how reserved he is, is certainly welcome company. Well… Archaeon has to admit that she’s a _little_ biased. Just a little.

Drifter certainly seems to be in better spirits with the fresh air. His still-sore wounds keep him from getting too far ahead of Archaeon despite his brisk pace. He’s in his full outfit, too, and Archaeon has to admit that it looks quite good on him. It looks good when it’s _clean_ and not _half-ruined_ , she reminds herself-- the only time she’d seen him in it before today was when she found him on the brink of death underground.

The helmet and mask lend an air of intrigue to the man, as do the lengthy, layered cloaks that conceal most of his body when he’s not moving. He keeps his arms tucked inside of them for the most part, but when he pulls them out, it reveals his slender, lean build. His waist is nicely accentuated by the tightly-belted skirt he wears, and the just shy of knee-high boots certainly complement the tattered hemline nicely. And the claws of his hands… that’s another subject entirely that she _absolutely_ cannot let herself dwell on. _Heavens._

They’d been in silence walking for maybe half an hour (Archaeon hadn’t exactly been keeping track) before Drifter finally came upon a precipice. He looks out at the view for a few moments before sitting at the edge of it, his back against an aged stone wall. What’s left of the wall isn’t exactly broad, so Archaeon stands beside him, hesitant to sit so close to him. It’s only when Drifter scoots over a bit and pats the ground that she finally joins him, heart skipping a beat at the gesture. Archaeon prays that he can’t feel her blush with how close they are right now.

 _“Didn’t know humans lived up here in the mountains. Thought it was just the vultures,”_ he signs.

Archaeon gives a small, light laugh. “Honestly, I think it’s just me up here,” she tells him. “I haven’t seen anyone else, at least.”

_“Sounds nice.”_

“Does it?”

Drifter nods. _“Not a fan of being around people.”_

“I suppose that’s to be expected of a drifter,” Archaeon comments. “Personally… I think it gets lonely sometimes.”

He looks at her, and she finally sees the wistful look in his eyes. _“Getting attached to people is dangerous,”_ he warns her. _“You’ll lose them eventually.”_ His hands move slowly, as if he’s not entirely committed to signing the words, as if each movement pains him somewhere deep and suppressed. _“Better to be on your own.”_

“...you lost someone,” Archaeon says quietly.

Drifter doesn’t say anything for several long moments. He stares down at his lap, his hands hovering in the air. _“I did. To the affliction,”_ he finally admits. His hands drop heavily onto his lap, too heavy for him to tell her any more than he has.

Archaeon doesn’t know what to say. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she whispers to him. “You… must’ve been close.”

He doesn’t say anything to her. Their shoulders are hardly an inch apart, but the space between them feels like it spans miles. She almost wants to shiver at the coldness of it. “...but you… fixed it, didn’t you? The affliction? You won’t lose anyone like that again.” Still nothing from him, save for the slow close of his eyes. Archaeon shakes her head, then lays back against the wall to stare out at the landscape. “I’m sorry. I should shut up.”

She almost wishes he’d say ‘yes, shut your mouth, you’re only making this worse,’ but he doesn’t. He just sighs and says, “No. You’re right.” Another conflicted sigh before he rubs his face with his hands. “It was just-- they were the first person I ever got… close to,” he admits, voice muffled.

The words make her immediately regret her previous thought as she realizes just how much he’s opening up to her. She wonders who this person was to Drifter-- a mentor? A close friend or ally? A… lover? Archaeon feels a selfish pang in her chest at the last thought and immediately pushes it down. “You can get close to more than one person. You aren’t disrespecting their memory by doing that.”

“I…” Drifter’s voice trails as he drops his hands, unsaid words hanging in the air. “...guess so.”

Archaeon lays her hand on the ground beside her thigh, shifting a little to get more comfortable. The movement brings her almost imperceptibly closer to Drifter. Maybe it doesn’t _actually_ bring her any closer to him, but she’d like to believe it does, because the next thing he does is let one of his hands slip from his lap and rest beside hers. Their pinkies just _barely_ touch, and it makes Archaeon’s ears burn. She swears she hears his breathing shift ever so slightly, but he doesn’t give her any other reaction.

She feels selfish for craving a relationship with this wanderer, especially after hearing what he went through. But… maybe she could help him heal, help him move on, help him learn that letting people in isn’t nearly as bad as he thinks.

She won’t rush him. This moment with him: their fingers touching, staring out at the world with him, that tiny crack in his cold, reserved exterior to let her see his vulnerability-- this is enough for now. This is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry this took me so long to update,,,,,,,,,i've gotten hooked on drawing hld stuff and haven't been writing so much bc of it oops (and also got sidetracked with writing mirror image)


	8. you're okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey im dcb and i write fanfic when im supposed to by paying attention to my conference calls

“We should check the bandages around your stomach,” Archaeon suggested the next evening. “It’s been a few days.”

Drifter looks up from the book he’d been poring over on the couch. He’d made himself comfortable on the couch that Archaeon typically slept on at night, bundling himself in her blankets and propping himself up on the pillows. He nods at her noncommittally. 

“Do you want me to help?” she ventures.

He pauses. On one hand, he’s not the type to accept help, especially not when that help involves being touched. On the other, handling the bandages around his torso isn’t exactly the easiest thing, and Archaeon’s soft, skilled hands definitely make life easier for him. _Soft?_ He blinks, realizing that his silence is verging on awkward. “I-- alright.”

Drifter sits up, freeing himself from his pile of blankets as Archaeon rises and sits beside him on the couch. His clawed fingers grasp the hem of his shirt and he leaves it, giving his host access to his bandages. “No blood. That’s good,” she observes, hands finding where she’d fastened the gauze a few days ago. Drifter flinches, sucking in his breath a little at the touch. “Sorry-- does it hurt?”

“No.” Drifter turns his head and gives a little cough. “Just… it’s fine.” _Just sensitive to you,_ he thinks, looking down to watch as Archaeon gently unwraps the bandages, her fingers gliding over his stomach before she leans in closer to his body, close enough that he can almost feel her breath on his skin, reaching behind him to pass the cloth to her other hand and continue unwrapping. He hates how warm he feels his skin getting beneath his mask, hates how he can’t get his mind to focus on anything other than her, hates how a very, very large part of him _wants_ to be touched by her.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Archaeon sets the bundle of bandages on her lap, eyes focused on Drifter’s abdomen. “I think you’re done being bandaged,” she reports, hand hovering above his skin for a few moments, before her fingers ever-so-lightly brush over it. Drifter tenses involuntarily at the delicate touch, but he can’t bring himself to shy away from it. Archaeon seemed to have been expecting a light scolding from him or a reminder to focus, but when she hears nothing from him, she lets herself feel the wound properly, eyes slowly lifting to meet his.

Her lips are parted just slightly as if she’s surprised that he’s letting her get away with this. Truth be told, he can hardly believe it himself. Their faces are close, so close, and he realizes just how striking her eyes are, just how soft her hair looks. He feels something distantly familiar-- something he hasn’t felt since Guardian was alive-- and realizes that he’d quite like to cup her face in his hands and kiss her.

No. No, he’s not doing that again with someone. Does he not want to do it altogether? Does he not want to do it ever again? Is Guardian’s death still too fresh in his mind? Is he… He’s not… he’s not ready, maybe, is all it is. But Archaeon-- her warmth, her touches, her gentleness, her… patience. And how he already feels these things about her, these longings for her touch… Does he just miss Guardian? Is he just using her as a replacement?

Her hand is still lingering on his abdomen, but he pulls his shirt back down nonetheless, looking off to the side in embarrassment. “That’s good,” he says quietly, unable to speak up for fear of her hearing his voice trembling.

“Do you want me to clean the leftover gel off of you?” Archaeon offers.

 _“I’ll take care of it before I go to sleep,”_ he signs, getting up. _“I’m about to go to bed anyways.”_

“Alright. Have a good night.” She watches Drifter grab his book and retreat to the bedroom, and she certainly doesn’t miss the glance he casts over his shoulder at her before disappearing behind the door.

Drifter lets out a shaking breath once he’s safely behind closed doors. He lays the book on the nightstand, then sets his helmet beside it. His shirt comes off and gets tossed gracelessly onto the bed as he walks to the washroom, where he stares at himself in the mirror for several long, silent moments. His wound has healed itself quite nicely, he’ll admit. He stares at it, then slowly, ever so slowly, traces his fingers over it just as Archaeon had, lets his hand rest on it, closes his eyes and imagines it’s hers.

What if he stayed?

His eyes snap open at the thought. No, he can’t stay. He’s a drifter. Wandering is in his blood. He doesn’t stay in one spot.

But… what if he stayed?

Drifter undresses himself and climbs into the shower, running the water hot enough to get it steaming. He’s had this thought before. Archaeology-- at least the way Archaeon described it-- doesn’t sound that bad, really. They just sound like drifters with a home. And if he was really being honest with himself… the taste of home that he had with Guardian was… nice. He liked it.

He doesn’t have a lethal timer over his head anymore. He doesn’t have a desperate search for a cure anymore. Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to finally settle somewhere.

Drifter runs his fingers through his hair, scrubbing at his head as if to wash the conflicted thoughts and feelings from his mind. He hates being indecisive. He hates lingering on a decision like this. Life is so much easier when he can just make split-second choices and keep going, facing head-on whatever consequences may result. This is _frustrating._ He presses his hands against his face, feeling the hot water on his skin, and sighs loudly.

He stands there long enough to lose track of time, forcing every thought from his mind. It’s not until his head is perfectly clear and his muscles fully relaxed that he finally shuts off the water and steps out. He dries himself, taking care around his freshly healed wounds, before slipping on a fresh pair of clothes. Drifter hangs up his damp towel and grabs his mask, clutching it tightly, then walks to the bed and lays it beside his helmet.

The shower worked wonders on his mind, he thinks, as he settles in beneath the blankets. The mattress is large, too large for one person, but he doesn’t care. It just means more space for him to sprawl out on (if he did that sort of thing, anyways-- he’s always found himself curled up tightly whenever he wakes as long as the thing waking him isn’t a nightmare). His calm mind remains that way just long enough to let him drift off for the night.

* * *

He’s outside somewhere, and it’s dark. The chill of the air cuts straight through his cloaks, his clothes, his body, chilling him straight to his bones. There’s no moon or stars to light the world for him, and his sprite is suspiciously missing. He glances around and finds it hovering right where he’d just been looking.

It says something to him in an oddly human voice, but whatever it says, he can’t make sense of it. Drifter doesn’t remember his sprite speaking to him before, but he doesn’t question it.

“Drifter,” comes a voice from behind him. The deep tone, the slight roughness to it-- Drifter whirls around and finds Guardian standing behind him. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah. Coming.”

But Guardian doesn’t keep walking. They turn around and face Drifter, and it’s then that Drifter realizes that he can’t see Guardian’s striking blue eyes. Instead, he finds the face of Judgement projected in front of Guardian’s helmet. The diamond glares at him, and the hatred Drifter feels radiating from it is enough to make him take a step back. Instinct makes him want to reach for his sword or his gun, but this is… this is still _Guardian._

 _You should be dead,_ a voice hisses at him through the shrill static that’s filling Drifter’s ears. _You should be dead._

Guardian’s body is distorting, the armor turning colors, turning black and deep purple. They’re taller now, so much taller, and tentacles have replaced the fur-trimmed cloak about their shoulders. Their fingers are tipped in sharp claws, their helmet much more like a skull with Judgement’s face on it now, and the _hatred_ \-- it’s suffocating Drifter, weighing in the air like he’s drowning at the bottom of an ocean, crushing him.

His lungs burn. He knows what’s coming. The coughs wrack his body and he pulls his mask down, letting his blood spill onto the ground, onto his skirt. It’s thick and bitter and it burns and he _hates it._ Drifter presses the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping the blood on his glove, and looks up as he tries to stifle another cough.

The abomination that was once Guardian is moving towards him. Its feet seem to scarcely touch the ground as it walks, and it moves far easier than anything its size should. It’s at least twice as tall as he is, towering above him, imposing with its presence. And all around Drifter, hissing through the static, he hears it over and over: _You should be dead. You should be dead._

Every word hurts more and more, stabs into his mind, his chest, his lungs. It hurts. Gods, it hurts. He wants to collapse, to beg for it to stop, to plead for some kind of mercy, for anything. But he won’t. He can’t. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he remembers struggling for far too long to ever give into this-- this _thing_.

Drifter steps back again. The ball of his foot hit solid ground, but something crumbles beneath his heel and makes him nearly lose his balance. He casts a glance over his shoulder and sees the Abyss below him. The sea of dark towers is below him, humming as their fuchsia lines pulse and glow. It’s far. So, so far below him. He wonders how long it would take for him to hit one of them if he fell.

He knows he can’t back away anymore. He’s cornered with nowhere to run. He either faces this thing or he jumps off the ledge, but Drifter gets the sinking feeling that either option will only end with him dying. His hands tremble and he feels a sort of panic rising within him. He’s… helpless.

 _You are,_ the voice says. _Everything you’ve done has been pointless. You selfish creature, searching for a cure to save only yourself._

He knows that. He knows he’s no hero. He knows he’s far from a good person.

_You should be dead._

Something wraps around his neck, squeezing, lifting him off his feet. Drifter’s hands grip the tentacle that’s choking him and his feet kick pointlessly at the air. He’s past the ledge now, hanging over the vast void that seems to stretch out for an eternity around him. In fact, there’s no ledge anymore, no Guardian, no sprite; it’s just him being strangled by Judgement and that god-awful static piercing his ears.

_You should be dead._

He knows that. He’s always known that. It haunts him that he managed to survive but was too slow to save Guardian. 

_You wish you’d died down there._

He does. For some reason, he does. After spending so long clawing his way towards his own salvation, he realizes that some part of him-- the part plagued by his own guilt-- wished he were dead.

Judgement lifts its arm, except it’s not an arm anymore, it’s--

He doesn’t have time to comprehend what’s happening before it pierces him, running straight through his abdomen. Drifter screams at the all-too-real pain even though the tentacle around his neck should be gripping him tight enough to crush his throat. He claws at the spike that’s impaled him, but his hands feel so heavy, so slow, like they’re moving through water. He can’t do anything.

The monster lets go of his neck in time to hurl him down into the void below. He tumbles, tumbles, tumbles, screaming all the way, and those black obelisks rushing closer, closer, closer, until…

* * *

Someone’s hands are in his.

_“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re alright.”_

They’re soft and insistent against his, despite how he can feel himself clutching at them.

_“Can you hear me? You’re okay, you’re okay. Just breathe. Just breathe.”_

He realizes he’s hyperventilating, and it’s made his whole body tense and his face go numb and his throat tighten.

_“Breathe.”_

He tries. He forces himself to slow down. Drifter opens his eyes and finds Archaeon kneeling in front of him. He’s on the floor somehow and he can feel himself clammy with sweat.

 _“That’s it,”_ she signs into her hands. Her face is plagued with concern. _“Breathe.”_

His face is still too numb to let him speak, but it’s not numb enough to keep him from feeling the tears on his cheeks. He tries to sign to her, but his hands shake too much to do it, and he doesn’t even know what he wants to say. He just stares at her for a few moments before squeezing his eyes shut again, trying to block out the pain he felt in his dream, to block out the still-vivid horrors of it.

“I think you had a nightmare,” Archaeon whispers. “I woke up and heard you screaming and found you on the floor.”

Drifter nods, opening his eyes again. _“I did,”_ he signs into her hands. _“It…”_ He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. _“...I don’t want to talk about it.”_

_“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”_

He tries to focus on calming his breathing. His fingers still feel tight from his body’s response to his hyperventilating. Slowly, he manages it, and the uncomfortable numbness starts to subside. He lets out a shaky breath before whispering, “I’m okay.”

Archaeon smiles warmly at him. Her eyes are soft, soothing, calming. And when she lifts a hand to cup his cheek and brush away his tears, he doesn’t even flinch. It reminds him of how Guardian used to comfort him after his nightmares and it leaves him missing how they would always pull him close in the bed, holding him tightly until he could fall back asleep again. They had a knack for making him feel safe, and even after that nightmare, Drifter still finds himself craving that security.

“Do you want some water or something?” Archaeon asks.

 _“That… would be nice.”_ The offer made him realize just how much his throat hurts after the screaming he apparently did.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t watch her disappear from the room as she goes to grab him a glass of water. Instead, he gets up and grabs his cloaks, using them to dry the sweat from his brow. He must look like a mess, he realizes. Drifter lays them back down on the dresser and walks over to the bed, sitting heavily on it. His pulse is only just now beginning to calm.

Archaeon comes back into the room, glass of water in hand. “Here,” she says, handing it to him, and Drifter eagerly drinks from it before he remembers to quickly thank her with one hand. “Are you feeling any better yet?”

He pauses, holding the nearly-empty glass with both hands. Drifter’s eyes dart to Archaeon’s hands, nervously clasped in front of herself, and a dangerous thought pops into his mind. He wants to push it aside, but with how fresh the nightmare is, with how worried his host is, with how… soothing her touch and gaze are…

Drifter sets the glass on the nightstand and, without letting himself get caught up in indecision and his own reluctance to open up to people, he extends his hands to Archaeon. Her eyes widen with surprise, but she seems oddly eager to place her hands into his to allow him to sign intimately to her.

 _“...will you stay?”_ he asks.

If her eyes had widened before, they’ve gotten even wider now. _“In… bed with you?”_

Well, when she puts it that way, it sounds kind of inappropriate, Drifter thinks. But that’s not what he wants. He just wants the comfort he used to have from Guardian. _“I… yes.”_

Archaeon hesitates for a moment, then, _“of course.”_

He doesn’t let go of her quite yet. A part of him is frozen, shocked at how he’d actually let himself ask that. And with how her hands linger on his, he realizes that she doesn’t quite want to let go of him either.

Oh. He knows this. He remembers this with Guardian, the slight little hints they gave, until finally they confessed that they--

Drifter lets go and lets Archaeon walk around to the other side of the bed, where she crawls under the blankets. After a moment, Drifter lifts the blankets and joins her. They’re both on their sides facing each other with their hands hardly an inch apart. “Is this okay?” she whispers to him.

He nods. _“Yeah. It’s okay,”_ Drifter signs into her hand. Then, _“thank you.”_

A smile has painted itself onto her face and he can feel something warming his face with the look she’s giving him. Her hands can’t bring themselves to part with his, but they’re unobtrusive with their touch. _She’s in love with me,_ he tells himself. No, it’s more like… reminds himself. She’s always had that affectionate look in her eyes towards him; her hands, that lingering touch. He’s caught the way her cheeks flush around him sometimes.

It’s strange to feel that kind of affection from someone again. But somewhere inside of himself, far behind the walls he’s built for himself to keep up that loner exterior, he knows he doesn’t mind it.

And… he isn’t quite ready to accept it yet, but he might even feel the same towards her.


	9. feelings

She’s awake, and she knows she’s lying in her own bed again. The events of the previous night are the closest thing in her mind right now: Drifter’s broken screams from her room, the way his entire body trembled with his night terror, his hands in hers, his body beside her in her bed.

Is he still there? Archaeon rolls over to check and finds his side of the bed vacant. It’s still warm, so he hasn’t been up for very long. She throws the blankets off of herself and swings her legs over the side of the bed. His gear is gone from the dresser, she notices as she grabs her robe and shrugs it on.

Did he… leave? She feels a pang of worry strike her stomach at the thought. Quickly, she leaves her room and, finding the living room and dining area empty, she opens the front door. Archaeon forgets to hide the sigh of relief that escapes her then when she finds Drifter sitting on the crate on the porch.

He certainly notices it, because he hardly skips a beat before signing,  _ “you thought I’d left.” _

“I… yeah,” Archaeon admits sheepishly. “I did.”

He’s silent for a while, staring out into space with his gloved hands in his lap.  _ “Thought about it.” _

There’s another pang in her chest at the admission. Did she do something wrong? Did she make him uncomfortable in her sleep? Is he just… ready to go back to drifting?

He turns his head just enough to look at her from the corner of his eye.  _ “Surprised you’re not saying anything to that.” _

“I mean… it’s up to you, ultimately. I, uh, can’t make you stay here,” Archaeon forces herself to say, even though it hurts. The one thing she can’t do, however, is bring herself to look at his face. If she does, she might not be able to keep herself from admitting how she feels about him, from trying to keep him here with her to fill the void of loneliness she’s felt ever since moving to this place.

_ “You don’t mean that.” _

“I do.”

_ “You don’t,”  _ he says, rising to his feet and standing in front of her. He’s not that much taller than her, but his height is the furthest thing from her mind when he’s right in front of her like this and she feels like she’s about to lose him but knows that the worst thing for her to do right now is to cling to him like she  _ so desperately wants to. _ He looks at her face for a moment or two before bluntly signing,  _ “You don’t mean it because I know you’re in love with me.” _

As soon as the words hit her, she feels her entire face go as red as his cloaks. She makes some kind of flustered noise but she can’t hear what it is. It’s probably an embarrassing one. Archaeon doesn’t know what to say, and even if she did know, she doesn’t think she could get herself to say it.

_ “I’m right, aren’t I?” _

She looks away from him, unable to bear those black eyes reading her every expression anymore, even though looking away itself is another dead give-away. “I-- uhm-- I like… you, yes,” Archaeon stammers, the admission only making her face burn more. “...sorry.”

Drifter just stares at her. She wants him to say something. Anything. The anxiety from the silence is clawing at her, eating away at her chest, her stomach, making her hands fidget nervously in front of her, picking at the skin beside her nails. Even if he said something like… outright coldly rejecting her, pushing her away, turning around and leaving her, at least she’d know. At least her words wouldn’t be hanging in the morning air between them for Drifter to turn over and inspect in his mind.

But then he stills the fidgeting of her hands with his own, and when she finally meets his gaze, she’s shocked at how soft his face is now.  _ “Don’t say sorry,”  _ he traces into her hands. Her heart races at the touch and she feels so dizzy at his words.  _ “I... “  _ It’s Drifter’s turn to feel embarrassed, it seems, as she watches his cheeks tinge with purple.  _ “...have been thinking about it. Your and my feelings.” _

Archaeon’s heart skips a beat and she feels her eyes widen just a little as hope seizes her. “Yes?” she whispers almost inaudibly.

Drifter closes his eyes as if to steel himself. She feels his hands tense a little as if he’s about to sign something, but they relax after a moment, indecisive. Then,  _ “I don’t mind them.” _

Oh. Is that reciprocation? Is he too embarrassed to admit he likes her back? She’s hopeful, but Archaeon doesn’t want to assume, so instead she signs,  _ “You don’t mind… my feelings? Your feelings?” _

_ “Your feelings. They’re…”  _ He sighs, seemingly struggling over his words.  _ “They’re fine. But I don’t know mine.”  _ Abruptly, he lets go of her hands and rubs his face. “That’s a lie,” he says aloud, surprising her. “I know my feelings. I know how I feel about you. When you grab my hands or when I’d feel your fingers on me when you’d change my bandages, all the times you’d make that tea for me or check on me--” Drifter pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I hate getting attached. Drifters don’t get attached. We’re not supposed to. I love being around you and I--”

Archaeon steps towards him, seizing the moment. He  _ does _ reciprocate. And while having someone love her is a foreign feeling to her, it’s enough to embolden her. “Drifter,” she says, voice warm and filled with tenderness, “you’re allowed to change. No one’s forcing you to keep wandering. You can have a home. You can have it  _ here. _ ”

“I lost the last person that let me call a place home.”

She connects the dots in her mind. “The person you mentioned the other day?”

“Yes.”

“You loved them.”

A painful pause. “Yes.”

“They were the first person you had that with, and so now you’re afraid of letting someone in and settling because you think it’ll happen again.”

Drifter looks at her. “I don’t like how well you can read me,” he says, not unkindly.

Archaeon takes his hands into hers, but it’s not to sign to him. It’s just to open the door to let her step closer to him, her eyes fixating on his. “Drifter… I’m not going to push you or force you to do anything. But it’s okay to let someone else into your life despite what happened.”

He says nothing in response, but with how his hands shift in hers, she can tell that his muscles have relaxed. And when he tilts his face closer to hers, she thinks for a moment that he might try to kiss her despite having his mask on; instead, he presses the cool metal visor of his helmet against her forehead and closes his eyes. “Why’d you want to leave?”

“I feel like you already know,” Drifter replies quietly, and he’s right.

“I thought you didn’t like how well I could read you, so I was gonna give you a chance to answer on your own.”

He exhales sharply through his nose in the tiniest of laughs. “Didn’t want to admit to myself how I felt. Or commit to staying with someone again.”

“And what about now? Do you still want to leave?”

“A bit less.”

Archaeon is grateful that the tension that was in the air seems to have lifted. “Maybe some pancakes for breakfast could convince you to stay.”

“Sounds like bribery.”

“...it might be.”

She hears that breathy laugh from him again, and it’s more than enough to make her smile along with him. “Come on,” Archaeon says, not letting go of his hands as she walks back to the front door, leading him. And the relief that she feels when Drifter seems more than content to follow along behind her… It’s enough to make her heart skip a beat with hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll stay with her after all.

The pancakes don’t take long to make, especially with Drifter helping her. She didn’t ask him to help, but he kept standing by the counter so much that Archaeon figured she’d give him something to do, and he seemed to welcome the responsibility. She supposed that he was feeling just as antsy as her after their exchange that morning.

She can’t get it off her mind. Someone has feelings for her, someone wants to be with her, someone who she has feelings for actually reciprocates those feelings. Her mind dwells on how he took her hands, how he looked into her eyes. And then her mind wanders somewhere dangerous, to how it might feel for him to take her hands at night, to see something else going on in those eyes as he gazes at her in the dim light of her bedroom--

“Are you going to flip it?” Drifter’s voice snaps her out of her fantasizing.

“Right. Thanks.” Archaeon slides her spatula under the pancake and she deftly flips it over. The side that was just down is a little burnt, so she brushes it off with a quick story. “You know, I used to be terrible at flipping these over. I used to go too slow and so the cake would always fall apart and look terrible. So my dad tried to coach me on it and told me I had to flip it faster, but then I slammed the pancake down really hard on the griddle and it kind of exploded and got batter everywhere…” She smiles faintly at the memory. “But I think I’ve got it figured out now.”

“You make these a lot?”

Archaeon shrugs. “I guess you could say that? I don’t usually eat breakfast, honestly. But I like to make these since they remind me of… home.”

She can feel Drifter’s eyes on her. “Do you miss it?”

“Yeah.”

He’s quiet for several moments as he watches Archaeon slide the last pancake onto a plate. “What’s it like?”

“Having a home?”

“No. A family.”

“Oh.” Archaeon doesn’t quite know how to respond right away. The fact that he doesn’t know how it feels already saddens her in a way she doesn’t care to put into coherent words. “It’s… I don’t know how to describe it. I guess you could say it’s like having people who you know you can always go back to, people who love you no matter what you do, people who… care about your well-being even when you feel like they should be tired of you. And they’re people you feel the same way about, too.”

He doesn’t sit right away after Archaeon sets the plates on the dining table, and she can tell he’s thinking heavily on her words. At length, he joins her there, and signs to her now that he’s sitting across from her.  _ “It sounds nice.” _

“Well, that’s just the good parts. Sometimes they can get on your nerves.”

_ “That goes for anything.” _

She smiles. “I guess so.”

_ “Why leave something like that?” _

“I’d heard legends about this place and was too intrigued by it to not move out here. I suppose I probably don’t need to go into detail about all the stuff here that there is to study.” Archaeon idly cuts into her pancake, reminiscing on how enthralled she was the first time she came across the bio-titans in the north and east. They were stunning feats of engineering that a tiny part of herself wished she could’ve seen in action. She’d heard that there was another one out in the forest, but that was far too nasty of a place for her to visit on her own.

Drifter nods slowly, seemingly content with the answer she gave him. They’re silent as they eat, and even once they’re done and the plates are put away, they still don’t say anything. Archaeon supposes that things might still be a bit… awkward after their mutual confessions that morning. Was it mutual? She’s not sure. Drifter certainly knew her feelings for him and wasted little time in bluntly calling her out on it, but he certainly seemed more than a little conflicted still on whether or not he should reciprocate them. He gave her the impression that he wanted to, with how he took her hands of his own volition and pressed his helm to her forehead, but she knows he has his own past to sift through.

Her guest is standing by the front window, staring out of the glass. When he speaks, it almost startles her. “I need to go south.”

“What for?”

“There’s something I need to take care of there.”

“Unfinished business? Hardly anyone lives in the south.”

A pause. “I know.”

The words seemed almost painful to him. “Well, you’re hardly in any condition to be travelling those kinds of distances on your own. Let me come with you.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve travelled with worse injuries.”

“Drifter.” Archaeon frowns as she walks to her room to get dressed. “Just because you have, doesn’t mean you should. Just give me a minute and I’ll be ready.” Hopefully that makes it clear enough that she isn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer this time. She has no doubts about Drifter’s abilities, but she’d really rather not have to drag his injured body around town and back up to her house again. The man may be a bit on the scrawny side, but he’s by no means  _ light. _

If he has complaints about her insistence, he doesn’t voice them, and he seems to have gotten the hint that it’s unwise to run off on his own. “Can you dash?”

“I wouldn’t have gotten very far in my work if I couldn’t.” She’s quick about swapping her pajamas for a shirt, pants, and leather jacket. Her boots, snugly equipped with the boosters she’d bought from the Dash Master, are in their familiar place beside her dresser, and her backpack isn’t too far off. Her fingers deftly pull her hair up into a well-practiced bun, which is then trapped against her head by her helmet. That just leaves her companion sprite, which springs to life and hovers beside her head with a cheerful chirp once she awakens it.

“Oh. I… need a shovel.”

“A shovel.” He looks at her wordlessly in response, and Archaeon supposes that it counts as an affirmation. She almost considers making a joke about it but quickly thinks the better of it. “Alright. I keep mine outside. We’ll grab one on the way out.”

Drifter nods and, after spending another moment looking her over, walks outside. Archaeon walks to the sink and fills her canteen with water before joining Drifter and finds him with a flat-edged shovel in hand. She shakes her head. “If you’re going to be digging, you want the other one. The one with the pointed head.”

He looks down at the other shovel and sheepishly swaps the two. He seems to weigh it in his hand. Archaeon smiles faintly beneath her helmet as she watches him.

Drifter brings his sprite closer to himself so that its display is easily within reach. “We’ll warp off of me,” he says. His clawed fingers hover over the display, not yet entering in the command to warp even as Archaeon moves in closer to him to link their sprites together.

“Drifter,” she begins, picking up on his hesitation, “what exactly are we going to be doing down there?”

He swallows. “Burying a partner.”

Before she can respond, he enters in the command to warp, and Archaeon is hit with the dizzying sensation of being moved through the teleportation network. Distantly, smothered by the shimmering and the energy flooding her mind and body, she wishes she’d knelt down before Drifter warped them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i watched pride and prejudice recently and it made me sorta wish i'd made this fic a slower burn but also i'm impatient and uhhh yeah anyways this chapter kept getting put on the backburner sorry. also the idea for what's coming up was very spontaneous and my main motivator for going thru with it is my dear wonderful roommate's emotionally pained reaction to it when i pitched it to her


	10. burial

Drifter seems far more accustomed to warping than she is, because he’s already walking off in some direction before Archaeon gets a chance to properly get her bearings. Blinking rapidly, she follows along, willing her feet not to stumble. The last thing she wants to do is faceplant behind Drifter; she might have a helmet on, but that wouldn’t make falling any less embarrassing.

He says nothing as they walk. His hands grip the shovel tightly, and she’s sure that if it weren’t for the gloves, his knuckles would be white. Or… whatever color his skin would be in such a case. Light blue?

She almost runs into him before she realizes he’s stopped dead in his tracks in the new clearing he’s led her to. There, between a mess of broken machines, is a rose and teal figure, slumped over on the ground. She can’t place the peculiar feeling that settles in her stomach at the sight of Drifter standing as frozen as the undoubtedly cold corpse ahead of them.

“Is that… them?” she asks, voice hushed.

He nods slowly before walking towards the body. As she follows, Archaeon realizes that she knows this person. She’s seen them before while grabbing supplies in town, their figure imposing, voice deep and gravelly, face shrouded in shadow. From what she’d heard, they were a good person-- generous, if a bit on the reserved side. But she never knew that they had a relationship with Drifter. Then again, she didn’t spend very much time in Central. She didn’t even know about Drifter, really, until she found him down in the Abyss.

Drifter kneels in front of the body, and it’s only then that Archaeon is able to see the pained look on his face. “I’m… sorry,” she says softly, hand hovering over Drifter’s shoulder. He says nothing, his eyes lingering into the darkness of that helmet for several moments longer. Here in the heat of the desert, decay has definitely set in, and not even Archaeon’s full-faced helmet can mask the smell. She supposes that Drifter’s grief must overpower all else.

“Help me move him,” he finally says, standing.

Together, they carry the body out of the center of the clearing and further to the side. As she watches Drifter start digging, Archaeon realizes that she should have brought two shovels. But he only makes it so far before he brings a hand to his abdomen, sucking in his breath through his teeth.

“Are you okay--?” Drifter steadies himself on the shovel and she moves in close to him. “Your wound-- I almost forgot--”

“I’m fine,” he hisses. “I need to do this.”

She closes her eyes and sighs. She can imagine how much this means to him, and it’s really not her place to tell him that he can’t do this final thing for his partner. “Alright.”

The silence feels heavy as she sits against the rocks and watches Drifter dig. He works for a while, making solid progress on the hole, but after what feels like close to an hour, he abruptly hands the shovel to Archaeon. She drops her pack, hands her canteen to Drifter, and gets to work while he sits heavily where she once was and drinks deep.

As an archaeologist, she’s not exactly a stranger to digging holes, and she easily picks up where Drifter left off. And while she’s no stranger to doing such a thing in the heat, she knows better than to let this ordeal stretch into the afternoon when the south is its hottest. So she works quickly-- this isn’t an archaeological site (yet?).

That said, it’s still not  _ easy _ work: it takes a lot out of her back, shoulders, and arms even with her experience. Archaeon knows how sore she’s going to be come next morning. But she supposes that, in a way, this is Drifter’s way of letting her share his burden. Or maybe that’s just how she’s interpreting it. Maybe it’s just how she’s choosing to see things. For all it’s worth, he’s certainly watching her through barely-opened eyes, his mask loose around his neck, canteen in the shade beside him.

“You should take your helmet off,” he says, a little out of breath.

“I should.” Archaeon pauses and pulls her helmet off, bending down to lay it beside Drifter. “Are you taking off yours?” She can see how much he’s sweating already. It reminds her to go ahead and pull off her leather jacket, which is already becoming uncomfortably warm in the morning sun.

He shrugs, taking off his own helmet and quickly replacing it with one of his cloaks, carefully wrapping it around his head to keep himself covered.

The silence returns as Archaeon gets back to digging. She can feel his eyes on her still, watching what little of her face he can see and the movements of her body. Does he want to see how she’s handling all of this? Is he just interested in the muscles of her back and shoulders as she works? Or is he just spaced out, reflecting on his own feelings, trying to move on?

Her thoughts provide little distraction from the gruelling work. Archaeon is grateful, then, when Drifter gets up after an hour and hops down into the hole, gently taking the shovel from her. It feels as if every load of dirt that she throws out onto the pile adds another ounce of emotional pain to her as she dwells on what little she knows of Drifter’s past and how this whole experience must be weighing on him. She prays silently that he can find some sort of peace and closure from this. And despite how difficult this is, Archaeon is grateful that she’s able to share it with him, able to empathize with him like this, able to carry a part of this weight for him.

The silent work continues like that for a few more hours, each of them trading off after about an hour, until Drifter seems satisfied with the depth of it and climbs out, his claws sinking into the hard dirt that’s now covering his black clothes. Archaeon hands the nearly-empty canteen off to him and he accepts it gratefully as he pulls his mask down and finishes it off.

“Good?” Archaeon says as she pushes the canteen into her backpack. The singular word feels out of place in the moment, but the silence is growing in its weight and she can scarcely handle it anymore.

He doesn’t answer her. When she looks at him, she finds him kneeling by the body of his lover, silently staring down at them. She walks over to him and stands beside him, lightly touching her fingers to his shoulder. Drifter is still grieving, she knows, even though he scarcely shows it. But slowly she feels him lift a hand to hold hers, his claws brushing over her gloves. She thinks for a moment that he’s going to sign something into it, but he just holds it, gently at first, then a little tighter, then he tilts his head into it.

Eventually he stands, still clinging to her hand. “Are you ready to say goodbye?” she asks softly, squeezing his hand reassuringly. Everything she says feels like it doesn’t belong. Archaeon isn’t used to dealing with the freshly dead and especially not with the still living who are grieving over the dead. She’s scrambling for things to say, clawing her way over her own uncertainty and mounting shared mourning.

“I think so,” he replies, and the sadness in his voice almost breaks her; there’s little she can do to restrain herself from grabbing him then and hugging him tightly. Drifter seems taken aback for a moment, but then he quickly wraps his arms around her and buries his face into her shoulder. She can feel his fingers digging into her back, digging through her shirt into her skin with those claws, but she doesn’t care. All Archaeon can think about right now is how much grief and pain this man must have experienced through his entire life with hardly anyone to share that burden with. She thinks about how he finally had this person, this pink drifter, to give him comfort, only to lose them to the thing that threatened both of their lives, leaving him alone and adrift once more.

Her arms hold him tighter as the thoughts course through her mind. “I’m sorry,” Archaeon whispers, throat tightening. “I’m so, so sorry.” She doesn’t want to cry. This isn’t her place to cry. She’s here to comfort him, not to be the focus of the moment. Archaeon does her best to will her tears away.

Drifter doesn’t speak. She thinks she can hear his breath trembling. They stay there for a long time, holding each other tightly, until she supposes that Drifter feels composed enough to let go. Even then, he feels reluctant in the way his hands slide off of her body.

_ “Take his legs,” _ he finally signs.

“Alright.”

Together, they lift the pink drifter’s body and carry them to the grave they’ve dug, lowering them into it as carefully as possible. Drifter hops down into the hole and takes it upon himself to arrange the body into something a little less haphazard before climbing back out. He seems much more composed once he stands again after grabbing the shovel off of the ground.

_ “Guess this part can be a two person job.” _

“I suppose so.”

Burying the body goes much quicker since they can work on it together: Drifter handles the shovel and Archaeon grabs handfuls of the dirt and moves them into the hole.

“I just realized I never asked you what their name was,” she says abruptly.

Drifter pauses after dropping another shovelful of dirt into the grave. “Guardian,” he finally replies.

Oh. It makes sense, she supposes, based off of what little she knows of them, but it also seems just a little more painful to be burying someone bearing that kind of a name.

Archaeon crouches beside the grave once it’s been filled, tamping down the dirt with her hands to smooth it as best she can. Burying Guardian has taken with it a large portion of the gloom in the air. “I feel like we should put some kind of marker here,” she says.

Drifter nods and dusts himself off a little while he thinks.  _ “I should’ve grabbed their helmet.” _

Archaeon glances at the freshly turned earth. “Can always dig it back up,” she comments without thinking.

It’s only when Drifter gives her a sharp look that she realizes that her words were probably in remarkably poor taste. But the two of them are thoroughly exhausted from today’s ordeal, and Drifter’s bristling expression soon gives way to an exhausted chuckle, still rough from his slowly healing throat.  _ “Absolutely not,” _ he signs to her. Instead, he dashes off to the mess of broken robots, searches through the metal pieces until he finds something that satisfies him, and dashes back to Archaeon. He’s holding a dark teal piece that’s in a shape that’s about as close to a grave marker that she thinks they’ll get out here and shoves it into the ground deep enough to make it clear that it’s intentional.

They step back from the grave, standing at the foot of it, and look at it together. “Thank you,” Drifter says quietly, “for helping with this.”

“Of course.”

_ “Don’t really want to linger here anymore. Do you have a warp pad by your house?” _

“I… uh… don’t.” 

Drifter looks at her. She’s sure that her face is a clear reflection of the exhaustion painted so plainly on his own. _ “How far of a trip is it from town, then?” _

“Well, I’m in the mountains. It’s not too far, but… I do kind of need to grab some things from town while we’re out here. Food and whatnot.”

He glances up at the sky. It’ll be well into dinner time by the time they make it back to her house, and that’s assuming her errands go quickly. Hesitantly, he signs,  _ “I have somewhere in town we can stay.” _

“I don’t have a warp point for town, so unless you do…”

He’s already pulled his sprite close to key in a warp pad, so Archaeon drops her sentence and instead picks up her helmet, pack, and Drifter’s helm before returning to his side. He gratefully takes the helmet from her, replacing the cloaks he’d wrapped about his head with it, before linking his sprite to hers for the teleport. Together they crouch to the ground as the warp kicks in, flooding that purple energy over them as it whisks them away to town.

* * *

It doesn’t surprise her that Drifter’s residence in town was in one of the numerous dilapidated buildings or that it was so close to the warp pad. She looks up at it, wondering how many others might call this building home, or how safe it even is to inhabit. It’s not her place to say though and, with how Drifter is staring into the hall after opening the front door, now might not be the best time to comment on crumbling states of existence.

She follows him in and he leads her to a messily-furnished room. Well, “furnished” might be a bit of a stretch, really. The place looks more like a storage room than anything else, with only a table and a bed in the other room to suggest otherwise. A peculiar static in her head draws her attention to two large hyperlight storage containers in the corner.

“You guys kept this in your house?” Archaeon asks, gesturing to it.

Drifter glances at it.  _ “Was there when I got here. Don’t know if Guardian put it there.” _

“Huh.” She lays her backpack on the table and starts rummaging through it for two of the meal packs she keeps in it. Drifter has wandered into the bedroom, so she starts preparing the meals herself. She doesn’t mind it, really. Besides, Archaeon is certain that there’s plenty of things here that Drifter needs to mentally sift through, and she’s not about to interrupt that.

Dinner doesn’t take long to prepare. She finds Drifter sitting on the edge of the bed, a fur-trimmed pink cloak in his hands. “Hey,” Archaeon greets, “dinner’s ready.”

He looks up at her slowly. “Right.” Gingerly, as if it’s something precious and fragile, he lays the cloak on the bed and joins her at the table.

The two of them are too tired to make much conversation that evening, leaving a solemn silence to take its place. It’s not until Drifter signs as they’re cleaning up after dinner that the silence is broken.  _ “Who’s showering first?” _ he asks.

Archaeon takes a moment to think. She saw a grand total of one comfortable sleeping spot in this apartment and it only has room for two people who like each other very much. Conclusion: unless one of them gets real, real comfortable with the idea of waking up on a cold floor with very sore post-gravedigging muscles, they’ll be sleeping together tonight. Which, of course, isn’t a problem in Archaeon’s mind. What  _ is  _ a problem is how grimy and sweaty she knows the both of them are. This can be solved with a shower, which isn’t the problematic part of this problem. No, the real problem comes from how grimy and sweaty their  _ clothes _ are.

Now, Drifter used to live here, she knows, so he probably has a spare change of clothes. That makes one of them. Archaeon has no spares. And this, she decides, should probably get addressed pre-shower rather than post-shower.

“Before we decide that-- I, uh, don’t have a change of clothes,” she says.

Drifter looks her up and down and finally seems to be aware of the dirt that’s covering the both of them.  _ “You can borrow one of Guardian’s old shirts.” _

Archaeon considers asking about pants before she remembers how much taller and muscular than herself the man was and decides that a shirt that fits her like a dress should be more than enough for the night. The thought of putting her still-dirty clothes on again in the morning doesn’t exactly thrill her, but she’ll only have to wear them until she gets back up to her house. “Okay. That works, thank you.”

_ “Who’s first, then?” _

“Uh-- I’ll let you go first.” Drifter would probably welcome a bit of time alone after everything he’s gone through today, Archaeon decides.

They walk to the bedroom portion of the apartment together and Drifter points out where Guardian’s shirts are kept before grabbing a clean set of clothing for himself.  _ “Make yourself comfortable,”  _ he signs noncommittally before disappearing into the washroom, closing the door behind himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the perspective format has been a/d/a/d etc etc and i RUINED the pattern here BUT. there have been a lot of fics already about drifter grieving over guardian's body. and as much as i would LOVE to break hearts and draw tears by writing about his internal thoughts as he mourns. i decided it might be interesting to try a perspective of someone on the outside watching his reactions.
> 
> and now comes the oh no!!!! only one bed!!! trope


	11. closer

Drifter is laying on his back on the bed, eyes closed. It felt good to get a long shower in and clean himself up. What wasn’t so good, though, was being alone in his thoughts there with nothing to occupy his mind. All he could think about was Guardian, how cold they were, how stiff. His eyes remember all too well the sight of lowering his old partner’s body into the earth and covering them with the soil.

The sound of Archaeon turning the water off draws him back into the present. It’s getting late and he’s certain that if he’s exhausted and already sore, then Archaeon feels the same way. Slowly, he sits up. With everything that’s happened today, he’s certain his subconscious will have some kind of twisted nightmare in store for him. It makes him long for Guardian’s warm presence beside him in this very bed.

He knows that’s over, though. He was reminded of that the last time he had a nightmare, and it was truly solidified earlier today. But Drifter also knows that he’s not alone. He glances down at the small empty space beside himself on the bed.

He shared a bed with Archaeon last night after his nightmare. It was nice, even if he was still conflicted internally over his feelings for her. But with his respects for Guardian paid and his partner given a proper, respectful burial, he feels as though he can do what drifters like himself do best and keep moving. Well, in an emotional sense, anyways.

His fingers trace over the blankets, thinking about Archaeon lying beneath them. They were always so perfectly kept when he used to live here. Drifter makes a mental note to make sure to return them to their proper state when he leaves with Archaeon in the morning.

He hears the washroom door open and looks over to it. Archaeon is there, her wet hair falling over her shoulders now that it’s free of its bun. Guardian’s old shirt is big on her, but not as long as he’d expected it to be, coming to about mid-thigh. She looks… sheepish, he realizes, and kind of embarrassed.

_ “What is it?” _

“Uh--” Archaeon pulls at the hem of the shirt as if trying to make it longer. “I, uh, feel kind of... “ He can see her face redden; it’s kind of cute. “...exposed… without any… pants to wear…”

Drifter stares at her, then realizes he’s staring at her thighs, and quickly looks to her face again.  _ “I could look away while you get in bed.” _

“You want to share the bed?”

Ah. He spoke without thinking. Well, not necessarily  _ completely _ without thinking-- he’d been thinking a lot about Archaeon sharing the bed with him while she was in the shower. He just hadn’t meant to blurt it out like he had.  _ “...I think so.” _

Wordlessly, Archaeon crosses to the bed and slips under the covers, quickly covering her legs up with them, but not before Drifter manages to catch a half-unintentional glance. He shifts to make sure she has enough room and lays beside her. The weight and the warmth beside him in this bed is comforting in its familiarity and he finds himself all too inclined to keep his body facing hers this time.

Archaeon seems to have the same thing in mind. “How are you holding up?” she asks softly, eyes focused on his. Her cheeks are still red with a blush.

“Fine,” he says. 

“Are you?”

Drifter sighs. It’s true that there’s still a lot running through his mind, but he’s never been one to really open up easily. He supposes that it might be worth a shot. “I’m… still thinking about a lot. About them. About… you and I.”

“That’s understandable.”

He hesitates. There’s countless things that he wants to say to Archaeon right now, and if he fears that they’ll all tumble out carelessly if he’s not careful. Drifter takes his time planning out his words. He can be brash and headstrong and ebbs on rude more often than not, but this is the time to try to be a little more careful. “I like you,” Drifter says. It’s a repetition of their morning exchange. “You know that. But I was… I felt like my… Part of me still feels like-- felt like-- I lost Guardian too recently to… be with someone else. Like it would be disrespectful towards them for me to be with you so suddenly. But I think that today helped me move on.” Drifter pauses before continuing again. “And I think that today helped me realize that it’s only hurting myself to let myself stay stagnant and to keep dwelling on someone that’s gone. And… you’ve already seen that I’m the type to keep moving.” He’s said a lot and, despite how much his throat has managed to heal, talking for so long is still uncomfortable for him.

Archaeon watches him, listening intently. She doesn’t respond immediately. “You didn’t say you liked me this morning,” she whispers, “but you did now.”

Drifter blinks. “Guess I did.” He shifts, getting himself more comfortable. He realizes that Archaeon actually looks a little bit lost. “What is it?”

“I… this is only the second time I’ve ever shared a bed with someone. And the first time was last night in a much bigger bed…”

She doesn’t know what to do with herself, he realizes. Well, considering how small the bed is, there’s really no room for either of them to keep completely to themselves. “Turn around,” he says, trying to make it sound not rude.

“Uh-- okay.” Archaeon shifts under the covers, turning herself so she’s facing away from Drifter.

Drifter moves in close to her, draping an arm over her body the same way he remembered Guardian putting one around him. He lets his body press against hers, keeping her close. He’s certain that if he could see Archaeon’s face, it’d be painted red with a blush. “How’s this?”

“I-- uhm-- it’s-- it’s nice,” she stammers. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“It’s fine.” He’s conflicted for a moment on whether or not he should open up a little further to her. “To tell the truth…” Drifter sighs. “Guardian and I slept separately when he first rescued me. But I had a lot of night terrors while I was… afflicted. And for some reason, having him holding me would always make them better or kept them away altogether.” He feels kind of silly when he puts it all into words. Part of him wishes he’d kept his answer to ‘it’s fine.’

“And I suppose you still have those nightmares sometimes,” Archaeon murmurs.

Drifter nods. “Yeah.” He shifts his head a bit so that the cloaks he’s wrapped around it cover him better. “Sometimes.”

“Do you think you’ll have one tonight?”

He sighs, tilting his head down so that his lips press into Archaeon’s hair-- another thing he remembered Guardian doing to him. “I might,” Drifter admits. “We’ll see.”

He missed having intimacy like this: feeling the warmth of someone against him, feeling their breathing. He was always on the receiving end of it, having been too reserved and too much of the loner type to offer much of it (or even to ask for it). But he’s learning now how to give that affection, that comfort-- and he finds that it’s just as nice.

* * *

Drifter’s sleep was dreamless that night. When he wakes, he finds himself warm and sore all over, but not terribly uncomfortable. There’s a weight on his shoulder and pins and needles in his arm. Opening his eyes, he finds Archaeon snuggled against him there, her head nestled on his shoulder, an arm and leg draped over his body.

She must have done it in her sleep, he thinks to himself. A large part of him wants to stay like this-- she looks so comfortable, so peaceful. But the numbness in his arm is far from pleasant, so he ever-so-gently moves her head off of himself and onto the pillow. She makes a noise-- something like a question-- and opens her eyes a little.

“My arm was numb,” he tells her.

“Why?” Archaeon mumbles, bleary eyes opening a bit more.

“Your head was on it.”

“Huh?” She blinks and rubs her eyes with the hand that was once resting on Drifter’s chest. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was-- uh--” Archaeon seems to notice just how much she’d entangled herself with his body and starts to sheepishly withdraw. “Sorry--”

Drifter turns and, without thinking, catches her about her waist, looking down at her. “It’s fine,” he says. Archaeon seems startled at the touch and stares up at him, already blushing. “I don’t… dislike it.” 

He sees her eyes flit to his lips, his shoulder, away from him, back to his face. “You… you like it?”

Drifter hesitates. He already knows how he feels about all of this, but he doesn’t quite want to blurt it out. “I… do, yes.” Glancing at her lips, he thinks to himself about how soft they look, how nice they might feel, how much he might like to try kissing them. Is that okay to do? Is it too soon to do that? Is that even right to do here? There’s so much about this whole affection-giving thing that he’s yet to understand. There’s so many lessons on it that he hadn’t realized he’d learned from Guardian that he’s yet to sort through and solidify in his mind, and he knows that there’s many more that he still needs to learn.

But maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to try to practice them. And so Drifter pulls up his memories of the morning kisses Guardian would give him, of them holding him around his waist just like how he’s holding Archaeon right now, of them leaning in and tilting their head ever so slightly, closing their eyes, meeting his lips-- What’s this he feels inside of him? Is this nervousness? He can’t remember feeling it in this kind of setting before.

Archaeon shifts a little and brings her forehead to rest against Drifter’s. It’s a little more intimate than the first time Drifter gave her this gesture now that there’s not the metal of his helmet between them. It’s just the fabric of his cloaks wrapped about his head that separates their skin now, but it’s not enough to block out the warmth he feels from her.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asks him softly.

“Remembering things,” he says. It’s not a very clear answer, but it’s all he’s willing to say about it right now.

“Oh.”

Drifter remembers Guardian asking for permission the first time they kissed him. He swallows, feeling his nervousness swelling within him. He shoves it down-- it’s not like himself to be afraid to take action. “Aeon,” he whispers. Her name wasn’t a word, and spelling it out in sign language would take longer than he’d like, so he always called her ‘aeon’ in his head as a nickname in case he ever needed to sign it.

“Yes?”

He doesn’t let himself think his words over lest his nerves get the better of him. “I want to kiss you.”

Silence. Then, in disbelief, “you do?”

A nod. The motion makes his cloak shift up his forehead a bit, leaving his blue skin touching Archaeon’s own pale skin.

“I-- I’ve never-- I’ve never… kissed someone before,” Archaeon says nervously. “But-- I think-- I’d, uhm, like it… uh, if you showed me… how…?”

Pulling his mask down, Drifter parts his lips slightly, tilts his head a little, and meets her in a kiss. He can feel her body freeze up, her breath hitch in her throat, before she seems to melt in his embrace as he trails his claws up her back. It’s true that she’s not the best kisser, but that’s the furthest thing from his mind when he has  _ this:  _ the warmth of her body, the softness of her lips, the silkiness of her hair as he slips his fingers into it to hold the back of her head. She rests a hand first on his waist; then, dissatisfied with stopping there, tentatively brings it up to rest her fingers on his cheek. They stop just shy of slipping beneath his makeshift hood, and Drifter is grateful for the respect she shows his boundaries.

They break away from the kiss to catch their breath, gazing at each other. Archaeon seems to be glowing with happiness, and Drifter can feel a rare smile touching his own lips. Before Guardian brought him here, Drifter didn’t even know what love was. It took a long time for him to accept that he was someone who was worthy of receiving it and to accept the affections that Guardian showed him. The pain that he felt when the universe, in its immeasurable cruelty, snatched that love away from him was crushing in its weight, and Drifter felt for sure that he’d never find another person willing to show it to a blunt, selfish, rude vagabond like himself.

And yet-- “Drifter,” Archaeon whispers, “I think I do love you.” --here he is, holding someone who once again saved him and once again is inexplicably drawn to him and once again  _ loves  _ him.

He kisses her again. It only feels right to. “You barely know me,” Drifter whispers.

“I want to know you.” Archaeon kisses him in return. “I want you to stay with me.”

Drifter gazes down at her. In the moment, every part of him is screaming at him to say ‘I will.’ He knew what loneliness was before he met Guardian, and he was reminded of it after they succumbed to the illness. He’d been a lonely soul in a desperate search, but now that his search is over… what’s left? Where does he go? It’s something he’d been thinking about ever since Archaeon saved him, and now… Now, he thinks he might cave in to what his heart’s been wanting: an end to the loneliness, the wandering, the uncertainty. And so, softly, as if he himself cannot believe he’s uttering the words, Drifter whispers, “I want to stay. With you.”

Archaeon’s lips part in a tiny gasp, but she doesn’t question him. She pulls him in close and plants a final kiss on his lips, lingering against him, clutching him. It feels like it’s fulfilling a long-held desire buried deep within him and he welcomes every moment of it, kissing her in return, wanting to draw out this moment for as long as he can.

But it can’t stretch on forever, and so the two eventually break away from the embrace. Archaeon is the one to speak first: “I guess we should… get dressed and take care of our errands here in town and go home.” Her cheeks are still tinted pink with a blush.

Drifter nods. Slowly he hauls himself out of bed; every muscle of his body is aching from yesterday’s work. He, at least, is no stranger to his body hurting. Archaeon, on the other hand, lets out a groan as she picks herself up and smooths out Guardian’s shirt, quickly making sure her butt is covered by it (but not before Drifter sneaks an accidental peek).

“Heavens, I’m so  _ sore,”  _ she complains.

_ “Thought digging would be something you don’t have a problem with.” _

“Usually I don’t dig  _ that _ much in one day when I  _ do  _ have to dig. Archaeological digs are a lot slower than that.”

Drifter nods a little as he pulls his mask back up to cover his mouth and nose. He waits until Archaeon gathers up her clothing and disappears into the washroom, closing the door behind herself, before he starts getting properly dressed. It doesn’t take him long at all, so he sets about gathering his old things from the closets and shelves: his companion sprites, swords, and cloaks. Neatly, he bundles them all together and sets them on the kitchen table. With that business done, he goes and makes the bed just as he’d told himself to do last night, doing his best to make it look just as nice as Guardian always had.

Drifter steps back into the bedroom, eyes on Guardian’s old cloak. He hears Archaeon step out of the washroom as he picks it up to hold in his hands. “Was that theirs?”

Drifter nods.

“I saw you holding it last night too. Are you going to be bringing it with us?”

Another nod.

He doesn’t see it, but she glances over at the bundle of things on the table. “And all of those things, too? That’ll be a lot to carry up the mountain.”

“I’ll carry it.”

“Let me rephrase: that’ll be a lot to carry up the mountain while you’re sore from yesterday.”

“It’s nothing.” Drifter lays the cloak down and starts removing his own. He feels Archaeon’s eyes on him while he’s neatly folding the red and orange fabric and looks to her once he’s finished. “Yes?”

“Uh-- nothing, just-- your… shoulders look… good,” she stammers, blushing.

Drifter blinks, then glances at one of his shoulders. It’s true that his tight shirt leaves little to the imagination as far as his muscles go. He lets out a hoarse, tiny chuckle and shakes his head. “Guess I should cover those up so you don’t get distracted.” He grabs Guardian’s cloak and pulls it about himself, fastening it at his neck. He’s silently grateful for his mask hiding a blush of his own. When you make a point of hiding most of your face and body, it’s rare that you get compliments on it.

“...the cloak looks nice on you, too,” Archaeon says, voice soft.

Drifter touches the fur trim about his shoulders. “They wore it better,” he replies, not unkindly.

Archaeon crosses to him and gently touches his upper arm. She can do that, he supposes, after their moment this morning. “Is there anything else we need to grab to take back with us?”

He glances around slowly, eyes scanning the room. Whatever worthy enough of going with him (not that having belongings is exactly a familiar concept to him) that’s left here certainly isn’t anything urgent, so he shakes his head.

“How do we want to do this then? Do you want to leave your things here while we do errands, or stay with them, or carry them and do errands with me…”

“They can wait here.”

“Alright. Let’s go, then.”

* * *

Drifter had always been under the impression that the people of Central did their best to ignore his existence. He’s a blueskin, after all, and that’s not even mentioning the fact that he was afflicted when he arrived. The only reason anyone was willing to deal with him was because Guardian had rescued him (that’s what he told himself, at least).

It surprises him, then, when people take notice of his presence. The owner of the small provisions store is the first to comment: “If it isn’t that drifter. Why, we all thought we’d never see you again. Thought for sure you’d just be another dead body for Archaeon here to study even after she brought you up out of that hole in the ground.”

The last sentence hits too close to home for his liking and sends a chill down his spine. He’s grateful when Archaeon answers for him. “It looked kinda bad I’ll admit, but after a few days he was back on his feet. It was nothing the apothecary and some rest couldn’t fix.”

“What about that sickness he had? After that big quake, even that other drifter-- the one who came back from the east-- stopped coughing. Said they hadn’t felt that well in years.”

Drifter swallows. “Mine is gone now, too.”

The shopkeep looks as if he wasn’t expecting Drifter to actually speak. “That’s good. Bet that other guy would love to thank you for it.”

“I don’t need it,” Drifter coldly replies. He didn’t do what he did for anyone but himself. Well, Guardian  _ would  _ have been included, but that didn’t exactly work out for them. But that, too, was for selfish reasons.

“Uh-- I’ll grab my usual stuff,” Archaeon interjects.

The shopkeep keeps his eyes on Drifter for a moment longer. “A little early for your usual pickup, aren’t you?” he says, slowly looking to Archaeon.

“A little, yeah. But we had some stuff to take care of down in the south. Hope it’s alright for me to be here early.”

He looks at her dirt-covered clothes. “That explains that, then,” the shopkeep chuckles. He seems more than content to ignore Drifter’s presence, and Drifter is more than content to step out of the shop while Archaeon handles her business.

The morning air is nice and Drifter is free to savor it, what with how the townsfolk prefer to ignore his presence and all. He’s sure they notice him-- the bright rosy pink and fur trim of Guardian’s cloak isn’t exactly a camouflage-- but he knows they’d rather not talk to a blueskin like himself. Drifter starts to wonder what the townsfolk might do to him now that Guardian is gone. Would they turn hostile towards him like they did with the town drunk? Or would they be smart enough to know better?

The sound of Archaeon emerging from the store rouses him from his thoughts. “Not even willing to pretend to be selfless, huh?” she comments. Was that annoyance in her voice?

_ “Why would I?” _

Archaeon looks at him wordlessly for several moments. “Might help some of your interactions go over a little more… smoothly.”

_ “Not in the business of making friends.” _

She sighs and shakes her head. “Come on.”

Their next stop is the apothecary’s shop. The scent of countless herbs floods Drifter’s senses and he finds it just as overpowering as all of the other times he’d been here. It is not, however, enough to mask his scent from the good doctor himself. “Ah, Drifter! Come here, come here, let me get a better look at you,” he urges in his cracked voice. Drifter steps closer to the counter. The doctor’s company is one that he minds much less than others’. “My, you recover quick, don’t you? Suppose it’s something with how you fellows were designed. Tell me, how are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Drifter replies. “That gel you make always helps.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you? You’re no stranger to it,” the doctor chuckles. He pats the counter in a distant substitute for clapping Drifter on the shoulder. “Now, Archaeon, what can I get for you? More medicated teas?”

She nods before remembering that the doctor’s eyesight wasn’t what it once was. “Yes, please. The ones for Drifter’s throat. And some honey, too.”

“Any painkillers?”

“Er-- yes. And muscle relaxants. Drifter and I--” Archaeon cuts herself off abruptly, glancing up at Drifter. He gives her a tiny nod of permission. “We-- uh… we buried… Guardian yesterday.”

The apothecary freezes for a moment. “My. I’d heard rumors about Drifter here wearing their cloak for a time-- why, you’re wearing it now, aren’t you?-- and that Guardian hadn’t been in town for far too long, but I’d hoped they were just gossip.” He looks down at the counter briefly, then to Drifter, taking his hands. If it were any other resident, Drifter would have recoiled in an instant, but he’s used to the doctor’s touch. “I know you two were close. I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure what to say. He’s never been in this position before. “I’m… thank you,” Drifter says quietly.

The doctor squeezes his hands a little before letting go. “I’ll go grab that medicine for you two,” he says, wandering away from the counter and to the shelves. “I do wonder, Drifter, what are you going to do now that you’re better?”

“I’m staying with Archaeon.”

“You are?” He peeks out from between two shelves of dried herbs and looks at the duo. “My, my. I see, I see.” There’s a faint chuckle from him as he disappears again. “Are you two close now, too? Secret’s safe with me.”

Archaeon glances up at Drifter and meets his eyes. There’s a blush to her cheeks that tells Drifter that she’s remembering their morning kiss as well. “We… maybe,” Archaeon says, nervously running her fingers through her hair.

“Only happened twice, Drifter, but I’m noticing a trend of you wanting to stick with the people who rescue you.”

“It’s not because I need to be--”

Drifter is cut off by the doctor before he can defend himself properly. “Now, now, I know you don’t need to be rescued, of course not, no need to tell me.” He emerges from between the shelves again with carefully bound packages of tea and medicine. “I know that’s not why.” There’s a mischievous glimmer in the apothecary’s eyes as he fixes them on Drifter’s. “Just observing. You know me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Drifter catches Archaeon’s shoulders shifting in a well-hidden giggle. He lets out a defeated sigh as the doctor returns to his place behind his counter and rings Archaeon up for her purchases. “You two behave now,” the doctor winks. “Especially you, Drifter. Stop getting hurt so much.”

“No promises.”

“Keep him in check, Archaeon.”

She smiles. “I dunno if I know him well enough to do that just yet, but I’ll try.”

They leave together, arms full of groceries and medicine. Archaeon looks down at their cargo. “This is going to be a pain in the ass to carry up the mountain,” she sighs.

“How much can fit in your backpack?” Drifter asks as they return to Guardian’s house.

Archaeon thinks for a moment. “I might be able to fit a decent bit in there. But then we have your stuff and the shovel to carry up too.” She walks into the apartment and looks at the bundle of things on the kitchen table. “Hm.”

Drifter looks at it with her. He thinks for a while, then grabs two of his cloaks and starts fastening them to either end of Archaeon’s shovel in a sort of makeshift pouch. He fills one pouch with the old companion sprites and the other with the sword hilts and leftover cloaks.

“Hey, that’s a good idea, actually. Let me see what I can fit in my backpack,” Archaeon says, grabbing her backpack and putting what she can into it. She manages to get most of the supplies and medicine in there, leaving only one bag worth of stuff to carry. “Anything else we need to bring with us?”

Drifter scans the room slowly. The place always looked like a lightly-used storage room, but it still managed to feel like home for the brief period he and Guardian shared it. “Not this time.”

“Okay.” Archaeon slings her backpack over her shoulders, grimacing in pain as she does. “I cannot wait to get home and not move for, like, a week after this,” she complains.

He laughs faintly. What might Guardian say to him if he said something like that to them? “Let me join you for that,” Drifter replies.

She smiles broadly. “You mean... cuddling with me?”

“I might.” Archaeon quickly blushes at his reply. “We’ll see,” he says, resting the shovel atop his shoulders.

“I look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh yes. smoonches.,,,,,


	12. together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god it's been 2 months im so sorry
> 
> also there's some nasty Adult implications here (nothing EXPLICIT there's just a paragraph with some references to Bangin) and it's why this fic has a mature rating so if u don't wanna hear about that stuff then um skip section 2 of this

She hadn’t expected lying on Drifter to be so comfortable. It’s true that he’s a little bonier than most, owing to his poor health before Archaeon rescued him from the Abyss. Maybe it’s just how she’s laying, with her body nestled in the crevice between his body and the back of the couch and his arm draped over her; maybe she’s still just so worn out from yesterday that she can’t bring herself to care either way. His sharply-tipped fingers lightly scratching her back through her shirt probably help, too.

But there’s something strange about it-- his intonation lately, his movements towards her-- as if they’re something he’s seen but never practiced. They seem almost out of character, honestly. Sure, Drifter’s opened up to her in the time he’s been with her and he’s clearly developed feelings for her, but this affection just doesn’t seem like it suits him. Or maybe she’s imagining it, too biased by the fact that he’s the first person to ever love her like this, to ever show her this sort of affection.

Something deep within her itches to ask, certain that Drifter’s answer to her will be that all of his actions towards her were an act or that they were fake all along. Maybe he’ll tell her that he doesn’t actually love her. Maybe he’ll tell her he doesn’t want to stay bound to one place. Maybe he’s restless.

What if they were real, though?

Archaeon nuzzles her face against Drifter’s arm, trying to smother the anxiety squirming inside of her. She’s afraid to ask, but at the same time she’s afraid to not know what’s going on inside Drifter’s head. 

She wonders if he notices how worried she is right now. Can he feel the stirring in the pit of her stomach as her thoughts run circles in her brain? Can he feel the minuscule tensing of her muscles? Surely not, Archaeon reasons. Drifter is observant and he’s far from ignorant, but she knows that someone as reclusive as him wouldn’t know too much about reading people. He can’t even see her face right now.

She latches onto that moment of clarity. What reason would Drifter have to lie to her about his feelings? Would it not be far, far worse for someone like himself to feign affection, to subject himself to the mortifying experience of being known? Why would he expend the effort of affection on someone from whom he doesn’t want to have it reciprocated by?

Her mind eases, then, at these thoughts. Yes, these all make sense. These are rational. 

Archaeon exhales softly, letting her body relax. She can tell by Drifter’s breathing that he’s still awake, but that’s alright. He can’t rub her back when he’s asleep, she thinks, smiling to herself.

* * *

It seemed to her that they were closer after burying Guardian. Drifter, reclusive as he was, seemed all the more open to telling her about himself and the things he’d seen in his life now. As dark as most of those things were, they made Archaeon’s life thus far seem like a plain walk in the park by comparison.

He told her of the illness, the affliction, that wretched disease: of its first advent to its tightening clutches on his life. He told her of the people he’d killed in his travels, the cruel rulers at the ends of the lands he’d felled in his pursuit of a cure. And he showed her his cloaks, his guns, his trinkets he’d found and kept with him along the way.

Not that she was one to be secretive, but Archaeon, in turn, opened up to him. She showed him her research, explained to him her artifacts, taught him her recipes that she held close to her heart. Drifter wasn’t a great cook by any means, but he was a decent helper to have around. He certainly knew his way around cutting up vegetables and meat, and he could keep an eye on the stove for her while she took care of laundry and other housework. Best of all, Drifter was more than happy to handle the cleanup for her.

Another nice thing about their growing relationship, of course, was how it remedied how touch-starved Archaeon realized she was. She’d gotten used to living on her own and only seeing other people on her occasional trip to town to buy food and supplies or to pass through on her way to her next dig. But now that she had Drifter here, had touched him to replace his bandages, had held his hand, had shared the bed, had  _ kissed _ him-- she realized just how much she’d been missing out on in her solitude.

They no longer slept separately-- it wasn’t even a question after their first night back in the cabin. There was something wonderful, Archaeon learned, about the warmth of another person beside her in bed, about their hand reaching out to touch her back, their lips on her forehead or her cheek before dozing off or after waking up. And if Drifter wasn’t in the bed in the morning, she always knew that he wasn’t far. Sometimes he was making her tea, or sitting out on the porch to watch the sunrise, or making his best effort to cook breakfast. Regardless, she never had the fear of him disappearing in the night or of him becoming too restless and leaving her. 

And, much later, she learned of something else just as lovely: of the nights where his weight and warmth were on top of her, pressing against her; of his lips against hers, their bare skin touching; of the taste of his sweat, the feeling of his hair between her fingers. She learned of his breathless voice, of how he didn’t want to let go even when their high had passed, of how they stayed tangled together until the morning when the light revealed the scratches on their backs and arms.

* * *

“When will you go on another dig?”

The question took her off-guard; she’d been deeply engrossed in dipping the heel piece of some bread into her stew. “Huh? Oh. Um-- I haven’t scoped out a place. It takes a bit of research, and some site visits, and setting up a camp… stuff like that.”

“What about the desert?”

“The desert? Down south?” Archaeon thinks for a moment. Honestly, she was surprised to hear Drifter suggest that they revisit the place. “I’ve only explored the surface of it. The labs were always too dangerous for me.”

Drifter nods slightly. “I could go with you. Help you study the place.”

“Are you interested in the labs?” It’s a silly question, she knows. After all--

“I came from there. My people.”

\--why wouldn’t Drifter be interested in learning more about where he came from?

“Right. Obvious answer.” She stirs her stew a little. “What if you don’t like what you find out?”

“I still want to know,” Drifter emphasizes. He puts a spoonful of meat into his mouth and continues with his hands.  _ “Collecting knowledge and learning about lost technology is what drifters do. The labs are full of it. And maybe they’ll teach me more about the people who made me.” _

“You certainly seem set on it,” Archaeon observes with a smile. “I don’t see why we couldn’t visit it and do some looking around and recording. It’s not like I have much else planned to do but read and make silly little crafts and keep going on walks with you.”

_ “When?” _

“Well, why not tomorrow?”

A nod. And, despite the fresh mouthful of food, Archaeon can see the faint smile touching his face.  _ “Together.” _

She smiles back at him. “Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah writers block hit me hard for some reason,,,,,,,,,,i have no excuse i wasn't even really busy tbh i just sat down several times and looked at this fic and my brain said "nope" and i said "ok ma'am have a nice day" and my brain said "i won't, fuck you" and i said" yes ma'am sorry ma'am"
> 
> also uh i know this is a really short chapter for a conclusion and i was kinda expecting to have one more chapter after this one but honestly......i feel like it's a nice way to tie things off. they live happily together and she gets to keep doing her archaeology work with drifter and drifter gets to learn about old forgotten tech on the trips and it's good everyone's happy
> 
> anyways. i hope u guys have enjoyed this fic. i really enjoyed writing it until the writer's block hit. and thank u to everyone who came along for this fairly indulgent trip. i was surprised that people actually paid attention to a canon/OC fic because JUST BEING HONEST i am one who tends to skip over such things. so thank u for reading and to those who have left kudos and comments ily. and if people rly want then maybe someday i will revisit this setting and write another fic??? idk we'll see
> 
> also happy 2021 hopefully i will keep making more hyper light drifter food this year


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